Islands in the Sea
by Flagg1991
Summary: Lynncoln World War I AU. Lincoln Loud, sixth deck officer onboard the ill-fated hospital ship HMHS Britannic, meets and falls in love with Lynn, a nurse.
1. A Day of Departure

**Someone advised me to state up front just how far from canon a story will stray. Well...this story strays. A lot. The only canon characters in it are Lynn and Lincoln, it's set in England and Greece in 1916, and...yeah. Very far from canon.**

 **THXXX11138: Your comment on Pedophile made my day. It's cool to see someone who's familiar with turn-of-the-century British passenger liners. It's a really specialized area of interest. As for the other thing you said...nope, you're not going to see a lifeboat chopped up by** _ **Britannic's**_ **propellers...you're going to see** _ **two**_ **lifeboats chopped up by** _ **Britannic's**_ **propellers.**

* * *

 _ **January 25, 1965**_

Winslow, a slight, middle aged man of forty-seven with big glasses and a receding hairline, pulled his 1964 Ford Anglia into a parking slot facing the gray, crashing sea bordering Liverpool's wharfs and cut the engine, killing _I'm Sorry, I'll Read That Again_ on the BBC Home Service mid-laugh. An avid reader and historian, Winslow rarely listened to radio programmes, but the silence on the ride from Manchester became too great, and he turned it on to occupy himself. He was nervous about the meeting ahead, and how he would be received, and as he got out into a blast of damp sea air, he prayed to the God of his mother that the old man would hear him out.

Pulling on a newsboy cap, he hurried along a concrete pathway flanking a rush of boarded up storefronts that once catered to the seamen who called Liverpool home, but served only the gulls now. With the advent of air travel, seafaring had fallen by the wayside as a practical mode of transportation, which never ceased to annoy him. Once, long ago, proud and majestic ships sailed the routes between Southampton and New York, replete in their splendor like queens in their royal vestments; today, for the sake of speed, people flew on cramped and possibly unsafe metal tubes that lacked the decadent beauty of those bygone liners.

The sea had always interested Winslow. As a boy, he thought he would like to be a sailor, but his asthma and overall frail constitution negated that possibility. Denied knowing it himself, he took to reading about it, devouring every book on nautical subjects that he could lay his hands on. His mother encouraged his pursuits with patience and forbearing, and for that he was endlessly grateful.

One oceanic related subject that always fascinated him was shipwrecks, life and death dramas played out on the decks of sinking vessels, microcosms of human suffering, pain, resilience, and bravery. The Titanic was the most complete and intriguing of shipwrecks - also the most storied - but there were many others just as interesting. Today, he intended to hear an account of one straight from the mouth of a survivor.

The docks ran the length of the coast, lined by warehouses, stockyards, and pubs...he counted three before he came to the one he wanted. The Lion's Head was a tiny structure wedged between two larger ones, a splintered wood sign hanging over the door, gold leaf writing on faded green. Inside, it was warm and dimly lit, like most pubs are, with gleaming oak woodwork and green upholstery. A bar stood along one wall and a number of tables filled the space to the left. The scent of fish, chips, and stale vomit tinged the air like childhood memories both pleasant and otherwise. Several men sat at the bar, one chatting with the keeper and another eating a sandwich. Winslow looked around, and at the end, far removed from the others, was his mark.

A tall, bullish man of about sixty-eight with a large stomach straining against a wool sweater and tufts of white hair sticking out from beneath a brown Andy cap, Lincoln Loud was the embodiment of the old Englishman, his face ruddy and weather beaten, his eyes faded, and his expression one of stoic indifference. He was not inviting, but Winslow went over and stood next to him anyway.

Taking a drink from a glass of amber liquid, Lincoln looked up at him, his bushy eyebrows rising quizzically. "Can I help you?" he asked. It was clear from his tone that he was ready for a fight...and would most likely win.

"Lincoln Loud?" Winslow asked.

"Aye," Lincoln responded, "who's asking?"

Winslow stated his name and held out his hand. Lincoln flicked his eyes contemptuously from it back to Winslow's face. "What do you want?"

Sitting in an empty stool, Winslow lied, "I'm from _The Manchester Times_ and I'm writing an article on the _HMHS Britannic."_

Lincoln stiffened at the mention of _Britannic_ , as Winslow had expected. "You were on it when it sank, correct?"

For a long, suspenseful moment, Lincoln stared at his glass with a misty, faraway expression. "I was," he finally said.

"Would you mind telling me about it?" Winslow asked, animation creeping into his voice. "I know it must be a hard subject to speak of, but I'd very much like to get your account of the sinking."

Sighing, Lincoln sat up straight in his chair and half turned to face Winslow. "I'd rather not," he said.

He turned away again, and Winslow's stomach clutched. "Please," he said with a beseeching hilt. "I'd love to hear it, and I'll even buy your drinks. Hell, I'll buy you dinner."

The barkeep had drifted over during Winslow's talk and regarded the old man with a knowing expression. "Tell 'im, Linc," he said, "I'd like to hear to. You keep saying you been to sea but you don't talk about it. Makes me think you're a bloody liar."

"I'm not a liar," Lincoln said flatly.

"And I'm not a Welshman," someone down the bar said, and everyone but Lincoln and Winslow laughed uproariously, one pounding the counter with his fist, another shaking his head, and another still throwing his head back.

His friends' taunting, as light hearted as it may have been, visibly grated on Lincoln's nerves: The red color in his not-so-jolly cheeks deepened and his fist closed tightly around the glass as though he were trying to break it. "I don't lie," he said in a low, menacing growl.

"Shipwreck, you say?" a man with silvery hair asked in a Cockney accent. "Was he the one what dressed like a woman to get in the lifeboat?"

"He was the one who wrecked it," the barkeep said and favored Lincoln with a shark-like grin, "drunk at the wheel again."

Lincoln shook his head in annoyance and breathed a long-suffering sigh. Winslow couldn't be sure, but it looked like him being made sport of was a common occurrence at The Lion's Head.

A man in a peacoat sitting at one of the tables spoke up, adding his own insult to the already battered and bruised sexagenarian. "He ain't been to sea, that's a lot of rot. A real seaman can't shut up about blimey mermaids and other tall stories."

"You'd know semen," Lincoln said over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, "wouldn't you, you fucking poof?"

Everyone howled with laughter, and Winslow looked about, feeling lost, a man who had wandered into a theater mid-show and had no clue what was going on. "Linc's getting mad, boys," the bartender said, "better lay off or he might go back to sea!"

The pounder pounded, the head shaker shook, and the head thrower backer threw back. Lincoln jerked the glass up, and Winslow instinctively cringed, sure the old man would brain someone with it. Instead, he drained it and sat it back down with a thunk. "Alright," he said and glanced at Winslow, "you wanna hear, you'll hear." He held up one gnarled finger like a headmaster reprimanding a wayward student, and Winslow couldn't help drawing back. "But I'm holding you to it. Drinks and dinner. I take my steak medium rare and my chips burnt."

"A real sailor eats seafood," someone snorted.

Lincoln pushed back from the bar and looked past Winslow, his wrinkled visage hard. Winslow wasn't an overly nervous sort, but the look upon the old man's face was frightening nevertheless. He did not know what Lincoln Loud looked like in his prime, but if now was anything to go by, he was tall, steely, and what men back then may have called 'hard boiled' or 'a tough egg.' He darted his eyes quickly and fritatively to the old man's countenance and tried to imagine him as he was in 1916, but was perturbed and disappointed to find that he couldn't. "You shut your bleeding trap or I'll come shut it for you."

The man held up a placating hand, and Lincoln glared at him, then turned to the bartender. "My friend Wilson's buying me a pint. Put it on his tab."

"It's Winslow," Winslow corrected quickly, then added a respectful, "sir."

"Right, Watson, like Holmes. You wanted to hear about Britannic?"

"Yes, sir," Winslow said.

"For you paper, is it?"

"Yes, sir."

Lincoln took his glass from the bartender with nod then drank a good half before putting it down. He took a deep breath, fortifying himself for the story ahead, and suddenly, Winslow was aware of a bated hush. The men at the bar all watched the old man expectantly, some with mocking smirks and others with genuine curiosity. "It was a damn big ship," Lincoln started, "and I was a newly minted deck officer…"

* * *

 _ **November 12, 1916**_

Lincoln Loud stared absently out the grimy, rain sluiced window as the dreary English countryside flashed by without. His hands rested on his lap, his threadbare rucksack sitting on the floor between his knees; he wore a heavy wool coat and a gray newsboy cap against the pervasive chill. Presently, he removed a pocket watch from his inner vest. Two O'clock. Sighing his irritation, he returned it and gazed once more at the drab green landscape beyond, the churning gray ocean visible in the distance, its boundary marked by pale, rock-strewn sand. Farther out, the sea and sky blended together so that you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began, both gray, both somber. Gulls dipped and wheeled overhead, and more hopped about on the beach. White caps broke on jagged rocks protruding from the swell, and even here, absconded in a swaying train car and surrounded by the clack of its tires on the track, he imagined he could hear the low, roaring whisper the drink made as it battered the shore, much like the chant of damned souls - beckoning the denizens of land to come and join them in the deeps.

A shiver ran down his spine and he turned away from the glass, his brow furrowing in annoyance. Being abroad and not shipboard always put him in a morbid mood, especially being abroad here, in England. At twenty-two, Lincoln had long detested the land of his birth. Not her people, mind you, nor the King, but the place itself: The persistent rain; the bare, rolling hills in the north; the smog-choked, cobblestone streets of London where a man could lose his purse to a pickpocket as easily as he could find a public house; he even hated the look of the villages lining the railroad - slate roofs, stonework faded by centuries, ancient churchyards crowded with slanted headmarkers one could scarcely read if they took it in their heads to try.

England also reminded him of his past, and he strove very much to forget his past. Britain, as far as he was concerned, could stay on its perch betwixt the North Atlantic and the North Sea and _rot_ ; he would long always to be somewhere else, anywhere else, and when he was here, he would despise every moment as a personal affront to his sensibilities.

If he could help it, he would stay far, far away from this loathsome isle, but there were times when he was forced to return - sometimes for business, and sometimes when his services were temporarily not needed by The White Star Line - shore leaves were common for sailors, and typically he took the opportunity to enjoy himself in exotic ports of call. Every once in a great while, however, he had to take holiday in the United Kingdom, and he looked to those excursions with dread.

Today, despite having spent two harrowing weeks in a rooming house on a narrow side street in Manchester, Lincoln was in good spirits, for he was returning to sea an officer aboard The White Star Line's largest ship, the HMHS _Britannic_. Prior to that, he served as an able seamen on the SS _Zealandic_ , and had been training for a post on the bridge since the onset of the war. His certification was granted in June, but, as there were no openings, he was left to his fate. In September he put in for transfer to another liner, and last month, just before going on leave, the Line telegramme him to say that no spots were available anywhere, a bit of rough news that left him more melancholic than normal as he set off for the city. As luck would have it, the sixth officer of the _Britannic_ was taken violently ill on the seventh and could not make the ship's next voyage. The telegram Lincoln received informed him that _owing to your faithful service, you have been chosen first from many candidates._

His hard work and perseverance, it would seem, had paid off at last, just when he was beginning to think his superiors were ignoring him. Moving up ranks happened with galaical speed, and waiting for it to happen often made a man feel as though time moved slower for him than everyone else. He was pleasantly shocked, therefore, when he was actually approved for advancement. This godsend put him one step closer now to one day piloting his own liner, a dream he had nursed since he was a boy in Whitechapel reading penny dreadfuls where brave and larger-than-life Captains always knew what to do, when to do it, and _how_ to do it. They were stoic, steadfast, dependable, and wise. They could do anything from navigate a fifty ton ship through treacherous waters to charm passengers into line loyalty for the rest of their lives. To a boy of Lincoln's station, Captains were as Lords, and in some hazy, ill-defined future, he would become one of them.

Shifting in his seat, he crossed his legs, propped his elbow on the arm, and pressed his index finger to his cheek, his eyes appraising the man sitting across from him; short and portly with a walrus mustache and hound dog eyes, he stared out the window and puffed grandly on a pipe, the smoke rising from the bowl in rings, whereupon it hung heavy in the air. Clad in a tweed jacket and flap-eared deerstalker cap, he reminded Lincoln of an eccentric college professor, or a magnifying glass wielding sleuth. All he needed was Watson the manservant and the image would be complete.

Shortly, the fields flanking the rail gave way to the dismal outskirts of dismal Southampton: Factories along the waterfront belched smoke from tall smokestacks, cheerless buildings crowded slanted streets thronged with horses, men, and automobiles, and grim industrial buildings loomed over trudging workers like cruel masters over downtrodden slaves. It all put him uncomfortably in mind of Whitechapel, the slum of his nativity, and he looked away.

Ahead, in all her queenly splendor, was _Britannic,_ a majestic and richly appointed triple screw vessel towering over the roofs along the wharf, its four yellow funnels and its masts reaching unto heaven as though in praise. Lincoln's breath caught and the corners of his thin lips twitched into as wide a smile as he was capable, which was not very wide at all. He had never been married, but he imagined that the queer feeling in the pit of his stomach was what a groom must experience as he watched his bride sweep down the aisle. It was rather like lust - scanning the boat deck and the enclosed promandones beneath it, he suddenly longed, with keen desire, to know her entire, to linger upon her beauty and to explore her body from the top to the bottom and then back again.

The tracks angled to the right, and more of her came into view, her massive hull painted white with a long, green stripe down the center broken only by red crosses to clearly denote her function as a hospital ship. More crosses had been erected on either end of the poop to be more easily seen. The Great War had been on for over two years at that point, but Lincoln had paid it little mind: The _Zelandic_ carried troops to the front, but beyond that, he knew very few details; from those he did, he could not confidently say that paint and crosses would dissuade German submarines in the event one crossed their path. Just last year, one torpedoed the _Lusitania_ off the coast of Ireland, killing thousands of civilians, many of them women and children. Would they really think twice about sending wounded soldiers to the bottom as well?

Not that he minded for himself, of course. All men must perish at some point. He did not fear death, nor was he attached to life. He had no family beyond the deck crew, no home off a keel; nothing to bind him to living, in other words.

To be quite blunt, he did not care whether he lived or died. He would have to shove off his mortal coil at some point, and when he did, he wanted it to be at sea.

The train pulled into the station shortly thereafter; people milled upon the platform and a beggar made his rounds, hand out and eyes down. The man across from him stood and took a green bag from the overhead compartment. Lincoln waited for him to leave, then got to his feet, slung his sack over his shoulder, and exited. Outside, the air was damp and clogged with the stench of smoke. He pulled his coat closed at the throat, bowed his head against the cold, and followed the platform to a set of stairs that led to the street. _Britannic_ was fully visible now, sitting in its berth and awaiting its departure, thick moorings tethering it to bollards on the pier. Longshoremen scuttled about like ants, loading boxes and crates onto cranes along the bow, whereupon they were hoisted aloft.

Laid down in 1911, _Britannic_ was the sister of both _Olympic_ and _Titanic_ , and nearly identical as well. Lincoln was an able seaman when _Titanic_ set sail in 1912 and requested transfer from the _Adriatic._ He was denied owing to the long wait list: Most every man employed by White Star wanted on _Titanic_ , as she was the largest and most luxurious ship to ever float; only a lucky few were chosen...and most of them went down with her too.

As fate would have it, _Adriatic_ left Liverpool several days after _Titanic_ foundered, and on the return trip from New York, a great many of her passengers sailed on _Adartic_. Among them was J. Bruce Ismay, the chairman of White Star, a man whose very presence terrified Lincoln, as to Lincoln, he was more lofty and powerful than God. He was more subdued than Lincoln imagined, though he did just survive a shipwreck, and even then, scandal swirled round him, as he lived while many others perished. London society shunned him as a coward, and in 1913 he resigned his post in disgrace.

To this day, Lincoln regretted not being on that ill-fated ship; its grandeur would more than make up for dying in freezing waters.

But as grand as _Titanic_ may have been, _Britannic_ was grander, its size second to none and its opulence, hitherto unrealized as it was pressed into service by the Admiralty the moment it touches water, put its older sisters to shame. She was also safer, as many changes to maritime law were made following the death of the aforementioned vessel. The most obvious was the presence of several large, crane-like davits on the boat deck, each powered by an electric motor and capable of launching six lifeboats which were presently stored on gantries. The rest of the davits were traditional single-boat Welins like those used on _Titanic._

Standing there in the drizzle - as a light, misting rain had begun - Lincoln wondered after the evacuation procedure of a hospital ship. He had never been on a sinking liner before, but he imagined putting passengers off in the boats was stressful; putting off sick and wounded men who couldn't see to themselves struck him as neigh on impossible unless ship sank very, very slowly.

Reaching into his coat, Lincoln produced a silver cigarette case, pulled one out, and lit it with a bronze lighter upon which were engraved his initials. He inhaled deeply, the smoke pinching the back of his throat, and blew the smoke out in a plume. Men in caps and coats hurried up and down the canted street, and a horse-drawn carriage passed in the direction of the wharf, the clip-clop of feet and the rusty squeak of wooden wheels finding Lincoln's ears. The shops bordering the walk were all low end, as were the people; their clothes were dirty, rumpled, and of poor quality. Many of them worked at the shipyard or in an attendant profession; others toiled in one of the factories. What Lincoln could see of this neighborhood reminded him even more of Whitechapel, and the pit of his stomach gurgled as if with indigestion.

He knew virtually nothing about it even though he'd come through many a time, but he hated it.

Pulling his cap down, he descended the stairs and crossed the street ahead of a horse-drawn cart. A tall fence ran the length of the sidewalk, and at its end, a booth guarded the entrance to the shipyard. A man sat inside, his shirtsleeves rolled up his hairy and powerfully built forearms. Lincoln showed him his papers, then continued on, the ship growing larger and larger until it blotted out the sky. Laborers hurried around him, shouting up to men on the deck and to one another. Ahead, a gangplank lead to an open hatch in the hull. At the top, an officer lounged against the frame and smoked a cigarette. He was dressed in black slacks, a long, dark blue knee length coat with two facing rows of gold buttons, and a cap with a white topper. From the gold stripes on the cuff of his coat, he was the fifth mate, one place above Lincoln in the chain of command.

He looked up when Lincoln approached and narrowed his eyes in suspension. Lincoln had served on more ships than he could remember and had worked with a thousand men; he felt no anxiety or nerves, no hesitation, and no self-consciousness. He reached into the pocket of his coat, took out his papers, and said, "I'm Lincoln Loud, replacement for Officer Jessup. Is this where I board?"

The officer creased his brow, ripped the paper from Lincoln's hand, and scanned it. Drops of rain made crisp tapping sounds as it struck and dampened the sheet. His features softened a little and he glanced up. "Aye," he said shortly, "report to the bridge." He stepped aside, granting Lincoln entry, and pointed down the passage, a long, uncarpeted and utilitarian hallway lined with doors and bare pipes. "Follow to the end and up the stairs. There are signs."

Lincoln waited for the man to introduce himself, and when he didn't, he nodded curtly and boarded the ship.

Seen from the outside, _Britannic_ was a lady in her finest, but here, in the bowels, she was rather like a whore: Undressed, unkempt, and disappointing...but arousing nevertheless. He looked curiously around as he made his way down the corridor, taking in every detail like a man on holiday in a strange and exciting place. At a T-shaped junction, he glanced left and right: To his left, the hall continued, and to the right it terminated at a steep and narrow set of stairs. A sign on on the wall read BOAT DECK followed by an arrow. Another informed him that he was presently on C-Deck. A third over the steps themselves screamed CREW ONLY.

Every ship boasts a special maze of passageways for stokers, engineers, officers, and stewards to move around without being seen by passengers, as though they were dirty but, unfortunately, all too necessary. That made walking about on the deck even more special.

Taking a deep, contented breath, Lincoln went up the stairs and to his new life.

* * *

Lynn O'Rourke stood in the queue before the train station ticket counter, a green shawl over her shoulders and a plain maroon bag clutched tightly in one hand. She wore a simple, long-sleeve blue dress with a high neck and a long white apron with a red cross upon the chest. A white nurse's cap sat atop her head, nearly lost in her thick auburn hair. A heart-shaped silver locket hung around her neck, her initials and the date it was gifted to her (2/5/12) engraved on the back.

As she waited her turn, she stared down at her feet, her limpid brown eyes troubled and her forehead wrinkled. Had anyone seen her face, they would have thought her a girl deep in thought; as it so happened, that is exactly what she was.

Nineteen and not unattractive - though her features were plain - Lynn was the type of girl one might call headstrong. Once she made up her mind, there was no dissuading her; she would follow her will to the ends of the earth without the slightest hesitation. Not because she believed herself always right, but rather because once she committed to something, she saw it through. Anything less, her father said, was failure, and in her life, Lynn had failed more times than she cared to remember. Shame was not an emotion she relished feeling, and whenever she abandoned a course of action, it filled her like poison, bubbling in her mid-section as acid bubbles in a cauldron. Never, though, had it been quite as strong as this: Her stomach was a hopeless tangle of knots and her tiny heart throbbed beneath the weight of her folly. Every muscle in her body cried out for her to return to _Britannic,_ but she couldn't. She would buy her ticket, take the train home to Ireland, and spend the remainder of her life in her home village, first on the estate of her father then, some day, with a husband. She would bear children, grow old, and die in due time. Perhaps, somewhere along the way, she would forget the awful things she had seen - would no longer hear the agonized screams of dying men ringing in her ears, or smell the stench of burned flesh lingering her nose. _Britannic_ and its dreadful cargo would cease to haunt her and she would move on. Or so she hoped.

Could she face her father, though? Could she come home with her head down and her tail between her legs? Could she stand to see, again, disappointment in his eyes?

She did not know, and a fist of anxiety closed around her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs until they burst, crushing her in its grip; her knees shook and she swallowed against a sandpaper throat, her hold on the bag tightening. She did not want him to look at her with contempt, nor did she wish to know that she brought dishonor to him. Jumping ship would doubtless bring that and more - she could even be put in jail.

It was worth it to escape the carnage.

Wasn't it?

When the war first broke out, the boys in her town all marched off to the front while she continued to haunt the shadowy halls of her father's manor, silent save for the rustle of her dress as she passed - father did not suffer commotion or disturbance, and sometimes Lynn held her breath for fear of annoying him. She was unwed and unemployed, and each moment she spent home was a moment she was failing and displeasing him. She enlisted in the Red Cross partly to get away, and partly to prove to him, and, most importantly, herself, that she could be every bit as useful in life as the son her father wanted.

She was posted to _Britannic_ in December 1915 and trained as a nurse. She knew not the cost of war, having been spared, like the British public at large, the horrible toll it took: Missing limbs, chemical burns, gunshot wounds. One man she tended to was raked about the middle by German machine gunfire and somehow lived. His stomach was sewn shut onboard, and one night, while she was dabbing his sweaty brow with a cloth, he tried, in the throes of his delirium, to sit up - the stitching tore and his insides spilled out onto her shoes. Even if she lived to be a hundred, she would never forget the wet sound them made as they plopped to the floor; nor would she forget the look of confusion and horror on his bloodless face.

That incident, above all others, decided her - she could not handle the awful things her position required of her. She could not hold the hand of dying men or look upon faces blistered by mustard gas. Her father wanted a son and Lynn had always done everything in her power to be one. She was strong, rational, even-tempered, and unafraid to work or to soil her hands. At least she fancied she was those things; on _Britannic,_ she discovered that the contrary was true. She was as weak and fragile as any woman who had ever lived, and no amount of wanting to please her father would change that. During the final leg of the previous journey, as the proud liner steamed west through the Mediterranean with a full load of sick and wounded, she resolved to leave once they returned to England.

Now, she stood here in the rain, more uncertain than she was before. She took a deep breath and looked up for the first time since disembarking. _Britannic_ loomed over the warehouse roofs along the waterfront, her yellow funnels and jutting masts rising regally against the gray sky. Crewmen moved along the upper decks like worker ants over a mound, making ready for departure. Had Nurse Forsythe discovered her absence yet? If she had, all hell would be breaking loose. She shuddered at the prospect of the other nurses' fate.

Nurse Forsythe, the highest ranking nurse on B-Deck, was a stern, bellicose woman who delighted in the power of her station and in committing small indignities to the women under her charge. Were they in an earlier time, she would almost assuredly cane wayward subordinates, but as the modern navy was kinder than it once was, she was forced to settle for lashings with tongue and finger instead, at which she was very adept. Lynn could not count the number of times she erred and received a brow beating that left her nearly in tears. _Stupid girl, those vials go on the third shelf, not the second; of all the women I've to worry about, you're the dumbest of the lot. You're not even fit to was the bedpans,everything you do is wrong and just looking at your face makes me ill. You will never be anything._ That example was, now that Lynn thought about it, one of the gentlest ones.

The old woman was right, though; Lynn never _would_ be anything, and this proved it. She couldn't handle the blasted bodies, she couldn't handle constantly being at sea, and she couldn't handle the daily upbraidings and scoldings. She tried to persevere, but she fell by the way, and no matter where life took her, that knowledge would fester deep in her soul like cancer.

Drawing a deep sigh, she forced her gaze away from the ship and to the broad back of the man ahead of her.

She was stupid, useless, weak, cowardly, and good for nothing save, perhaps, bearing children; surely she would find a way to louse that up, as well.

As if by magnetism, _Britannic_ commanded her attention once more. It sat in its berth, beckoning, calling, beseeching her to come back and overcome her fears. She looked at the ticket window, then at the ship again. She was, almost quite literally, at a crossroads, and that revelation made her breathing catch. In one direction lie ruin, and in the other, hope.

A conflict greater than the war on the continent erupted in her chest, and she frowned at her shoes. Like every woman her age, she desired to be married, but she desired peace of mind and, perhaps, pride a little more. Looking steadily at her feet, she broke from the line and hurried across the platform, her heels clicking forlornly on the cement. She descended a set of stairs to a sloping street and rushed down the sidewalk; if she tarried, her determination would waver and she would turn round. She glanced up as she came into the yard, and the giant liner stared down at her with imagined distaste. It was supposed to be a floating hospital, but in that moment, it looked more a prison, and Lynn's step faltered. What was she doing? She wasn't cut out for this; she should slink back to Cork and wait for a husband.

She was headstrong, though, and swallowing hard, she hanged her head and crossed to the gangplank, the shadow of the ship falling over her like the shade of Death. She climbed the plank and went in, offering a weak, "Hello" to Officer Farris, who manned the entrance. The atmosphere changed the moment she crossed the threshold, growing dark and heavy, like the air before a summer storm. Her heart skipped a beat, and the peculiar smell of the ship, sterile with a hint of musk, assaulted her senses and turned her stomach. She paused a tick in the corridor, her fingers curling round the straps of her bag, then she forced herself on. Come hell or high water, she was going to see this through; she made a commitment, and she would follow it to the very gates of hell. She _had_ to.

For herself.

Holding tight to her bag, she started to walk again.

* * *

The first officer Lincoln properly met was a thin, rat-faced man with a thick Cockney accent named Wright. He wore a blue overcoat with three stripes around the cuffs and a cap perched jauntily on his head. Lincoln was drifting along the port boat deck amidships when Wright strode up from forward, his arms swinging back and forth and his short legs pumping. He looked as though he were in a rush to be somewhere, but Lincoln accosted him anyway, explaining who he was and what he needed. "Aye," Wright said with a glint in his eye, "the man taking Jessup's place. Well, then, if you'll give me five minutes, I can show you what's what." He looked around, spotted a deck chair, and gestured to it, one corner of his mouth turning up in a sly smile. "Pretend you're on holiday for a bit."

Before Lincoln could reply, Wright rushed off and ducked through a doorway. Lincoln stared after him for a moment, then to the rain slicked chair. Holiday, huh? Indeed. Instead of sitting, he turned and wandered to the railing. Boats stood covered by canvas on either side of him, attached to Welin davits by thick riggings. Other men scurried up and down the deck to tasks one could only guess at.

Looking out over the low rooftops of Southampton, Lincoln frowned. Such an ugly place. Dirty, depressed, everything lightly coated in a soot and grime. If he never saw this hell hole, it would be too goddamn soon.

When Wright spoke from beside him, he started. "Ever been in that pub right there?" he asked and pointed to a nondescript building flanked by a warehouse on one end and the sailor's union office on the other.

"No," Lincoln said. He didn't like pubs. If he was drinking, he preferred to do it on his own. Drunk, one's self-control has a tendency to slip. He'd rather no one see that when it happened.

Wright hummed. "Not a drinkin' man, eh? Can't say that's a bad thing. What you think made Jessup so sick?" He laughed and swatted Lincoln's arm with the back of his hand.

Lincoln arched his brow. "Indeed?"

"Nah," Wright shook his head. "I dunno what it was that got him." A shadow flickered across his face, then he smiled again. "Right then. Follow me." He pushed away from the rail and Lincoln fell in behind him, looking left and right still, marveling at the exterior fixtures in amazement.

He shifted his bag to his opposite shoulder. "Hardly feels like I'm on a ship."

Wright threw a glance over his shoulder. "I've been on this girl two years and I see aint' seen her all. Fact, I still get lost from time to time. I don't go below decks if I can help it; I might not find my way back." He laughed heartily and slapped one of the crane davits as they passed. "You trained on these?"

"Aye," Lincoln said. The _Adriatic_ was small enough that it didn't need davits like these, but he was specifically taught the operational features thereof during the certification process. "Lot easier than the Welin."

"Buggers break all the time," Wright said with a dismissive wave. "Anything happens we'll have to lower off by hand anyway." They were approaching the foredeck now, the bridge ahead and to the left and the port bridge wing cab to the right. A low, waist-high wall marked the drop to the bow forecastle below. The poop deck rose directly to Lincoln's right, the gigantic fore funnel climbing high into the heavens; as they passed, Lincoln craned his neck to look up at it, marveling at both its height and its breath.

Like her more famous older sister, _Britannic_ boasted a covered navigating bridge open on either end and, behind it, a wheelhouse. An officer stood by the entrance to the former, staring off into the distance. Like Wright, he wore a long wool coat and cap.

"How long you been at sea?" Wright asked, taking a sharp left and opening a door marked OFFICER'S QUARTERS. Inside, Lincoln was taken aback by the rich oak paneled walls, low, comfortable lighting, and muted green carpeting. On _Adriatic_ and other ships, he had many chances to enter the officers' suite, and none of them were as nicely-appointed as this - it looked a facility for first class passengers rather than crew.

"Eleven years," Lincoln said.

A sitting room dotted with leather upholstered wing-back chairs and oaken end tables opened off the hall, a door on either side, one labeled WASH ROOM and the other BUNKS. "Sixteen for me," Wright said, "started in the navy during the South Africa war. You a naval man, huh?"

"No," Lincoln said. He considered joining the navy as a lad, but the stories he heard from the old men who swarmed Whitechapel pubs put him off. Things were perhaps different now, but in the last century, conditions were abhorrent, and being a man of high passion, Lincoln doubted he could stand to have an officer yelling into his face without striking the lout.

Wright lead him through the BUNKS door, which opened onto a short, door-lined hall. Brass light fixtures upon the gleaming walls cast a soft, inviting glow. "It's not for everyone," Wright allowed. "You're in with me the way Jessup was. They were supposed to send your blues up from the galley but I don't know if they did or not." He stopped at a door, produced a keyring from his pocket, and opened it. "Here it is. You're on the right."

He snapped on an overhead light, and faint brilliance filled the space. The carpet here was green, as it was in the common area; a neatly-made bed sat flush against either facing wall, both attended by a nightstand, a wash basin, and a straight-back chair. Lincoln came to a shuffling stop and traveled his gaze about the cabin, his jaw going slack. In the eleven years he'd been at sail, he'd never seen finer accommodations. An actual bed? With brass rigging? His own basin for shaving? He was used to a prison-like bunk jutting from a wall and nothing else; this might as well be a hotel than a ship.

Sensing his wonder, Wright laughed and slapped him across the back. "Real top-hole, eh? You should see the captain's place. Makes this look like a kennel." He went over to his nightstand, opened the drawer, and pulled out a silver cigarette case. "You smoke?"

Lincoln dropped his bag onto his bed. "Aye." He looked around and saw a wardrobe against the wall.

"Good," Wright said and took one out. "Jessup was off his onion about it; we had a few crossings, me and him. He's a good egg but I cracked him a time or two anyway." He laughed and lit his cigarette.

While he smoked, Lincoln went to the wardrobe and opened it, finding three uniforms on hangers, a wool coat like Wright's, shoes, and two caps on a shelf. "They send 'em?" Wright asked. He sat on the edge of his bed with his elbow propped on the nightstand, a haze of smoke obscuring his face.

"They did," Lincoln said.

"Right then," Wright said and got to his feet, "you change up then come out on deck. Captain Bartlett will meet'cha and we'll go from there." Without a further word, he left the room, the door clicking shut behind him. Alone, Lincoln took a deep, even breath and removed one of the uniforms from the wardrobe.

Fifteen minutes later, he stood in the navigation bridge next to Wright, clad in a cap and long wool dress coat with two ranks of buttons and one gold stripe circling each cuff to signify his position as junior most deck officer.

Essentially a covered shelter against the wind and rain, the navigation bridge housed the ship's engine-order telegraphs, engine-order relay telegraph, docking telegraph, and emergency telegraph, each one arrayed in a line facing the windows and controlled by a brass lever. Immediately aft was a helm with the ship's wheel and a binnacle housing a steering compass.

Vessels such as _Britannic,_ as state-of-the-art as they may be, relied heavily on the competence of the crew for navigation, judging distance, et al. One could not simply stand aside and let modern technology take charge; a liner required constant minding to keep it on course, and if one did not know what they were doing, disaster would surely follow.

For the first time since receiving the telegram that his promotion had been granted, Lincoln felt a rush of nerves. The weight of the entire ship, as it were, beared upon his shoulders. One minor misstep on his part, and it, plus the people on it, could very well wind up on the bottom.

Shortly after mustering, a large, powerfully built man with a salt-and-pepper colored beard strode in from starboard. He wore a coat and cap similar to everyone else's, but the markings on his cuffs were different: Four gold stripes with a loop on top. Perhaps it was Lincoln's imagination, but he felt the Captain's presence the way a faithful Christian might feel the presence of God during a particularly reverent prayer: It was a calm and dignified air, one of authority and honor, commanding respect but not demanding it. Lincoln instinctively stood up straighter and squared his shoulders.

Another man followed, his cap pulled low over his brow. Three stripes with a loop ringed his cuffs denoting him as Chief Officer.

Captain Bartlett glanced up, came over, and thrust out one large, calloused hand. "Loud?" he asked in a low, raspy voice.

"Aye, sir," Lincoln said, and they shook.

"It's good to have you," he said briskly. "I taken it you've been seen to your quarters."

Lincoln nodded. "Aye, sir."

"Good." He looked over his shoulder at the Chief, who stood in the wide archway opening onto the deck. "That's Chief Officer Stone. The senior deck commander under myself. You will report directly to him unless advised to the contrary."

A tall man with icy blue eyes heavily lidded and high, arrogant cheekbones, Officer Stone seemed to look down his narrow nose at Lincoln, his air the opposite of Bartlett's: Demanding rather than commanding respect. He nodded curtly, and Lincoln returned it out of obligation; Lincoln did not know whether or not love at first sight existed, but he knew that loathe at first sight did, for he had felt it many a'time in his life.

And now was one of them.

"Mr. Wright will show you about your duties once we're underway. They will include overseeing the boatswain, ensuring boats are covered, chained, and seaworthy at all times, checking equipment, standing the night watch, directing the quartermaster at the helm, assisting the medical staff where needed, overseeing the loading and unloading of cargo, handling the manifest, things of that sort." He put a flourish on the final four words and glanced at Stone with a heavy sigh. "We're ready to take her to sea then?"

Stone nodded. "Aye, sir," he said, voice low and chilly.

"Right." Bartlett looked at Lincoln. "Stand by and observe. Takes notes if you must." He flashed a grin to show that he was jesting and clapped Lincoln's arm. Lincoln smiled back and nodded.

On deck, Lincoln leaned against the rail and watched as the moorings were cast off and pulled to shore by shoremen. From here, the world appeared very small and distant, as though he were standing on the summit of a mountain. A wet gust of wind buffeted him and nearly blew his hat from his head; he held on and turned his face down, away from the barrage.

Beneath him, the deck thrummed lightly as the engines fired up. Several minutes later, perhaps as many as ten, steam burst from the forward funnel and two sharp bursts of the ship's whistle rent the day, piercing above the roar of pressure escaping the stacks. Shortly, _Britannic_ began to drift ponderously away from its berth, the gap between the hull and the dock widening by degrees, the gray swell whirling and churning.

Lincoln cast one final look at Southampton, dirty, miserable little place that it was, and turned away as _Britannic_ set out on what would be its final voyage.


	2. Like Ships in the Night

**Guest: I started out being a fan of Luancoln but switched teams pretty quickly. #LynnForTheWin #Lynnsanity**

 **THXXX11138: I think it was a mine, myself. I can't recall many of the finer details, but a German vessel laid mines in the area about a month before. In the story it's certainly thought to be a mine. I'm pretty sure I read** _ **Lost Liners**_ **at some point, haven't seen** _ **Floating Palaces**_ **though it sounds like something I'd be interested in.**

 **STR2D3PO: This is an idea I've had in my head for about ten years now. I've been interested in the Titanic since I saw the '97 movie in theaters, and that fascinating grew to encompass other shipwrecks and maritime subjects.**

* * *

 _ **November 14, 1916**_

It is possible to be surrounded by people...yet be also totally and utterly _alone_. Lynn O'Rourke knew that firsthand. Each day, she drifted through her duties like a wayward wrath, unseen, unknown, and unremarked upon...save for in the harshest of tones, and even then only by Nurse Forsythe. Lynn was accustomed to isolation, as she had known nothing but in her girlhood, but there were times when it weighed so heavy upon her breast that she could scarcely breathe. Nights, in her cabin on B-Deck, were the worst: Lying awake and staring into the darkness, no company but her own thoughts and no sound but the rushing hiss of absolute silence, she invariably returned to her failings, each one lined up and cast under light like artifacts in a museum.

In school, she was mediocre on her better days and downright incorrigible on her worst. Her father made bitter accusations that she did not apply herself, but she did - concentrating came difficult for her, and as she sat in the one room schoolhouse near her village, her mind wandered. Her teacher believed her a dullard and so, too, then did Father, adding to his already dim view of her.

At home, she was useless as a son _and_ a daughter. She could not sew, knit, cook, or keep home well enough, nor could she carry out the hard manual labor required of men. She made earnest attempts at all of these, but they each ended in her somehow blundering. Her family was once wealthy, but before her birth their fortunes declined. Her father was titled and owned the estate, but was virtually penniless, and as such, they were stateless, accepted neither by the higher class nor by the lower. Lynn, therefore, had not so much as a friend growing up, none close, at least, though she was acquainted with some of the local girls. When she was fifteen, she was perused by the son of a cobbler - his hair was like summer wheat and his eyes the most dazzling shade of blue she had ever seen. She liked him very much, but her father did not approve, and it ended. Lynn did not allow herself to dwell on the matter, but sometimes, in the dead of night, unable to sleep, she did, and she bitterly resented her father for sending him away.

Days were easier to cope with just so long as they were busy. The first two days of _Britannic's_ current voyage were abuzz with activity, keeping both her mind and her body occupied. Beds needed dressing, supply cabinets stocked, the surgical theater (once the first class dining room) washed, the main ward - a reception area under better circumstances - made ready, and the wards on the upper decks, all housed in the ship's public rooms, supplied. Lynn and three dozen other nurses bustled to and fro during the first days at sea, running, bending, lifting, carrying, and making a thousand beds all under the stern and watchful eye of Nurse Forsythe. The old woman, beefy and stout with boring brown eyes and doughy flesh, stood by with her arms crossed as the nurses and orderlies under her charge worked, snapping and barking orders, insults, and derision for the smallest infraction...or, in some cases, no infraction at all. On the first day abroad, she came behind Lynn and yanked the clothes off a dozen beds in the infirmary off the promenade deck saying _You dressed them wrong. Do it again._ Lynn made them as neatly as she always had - as neatly as anyone had - but the brute chose her, again, to bully. She spread her misery around but kept an extra helping for Lynn. Knowing that she was not the only one to suffer made it easier to bear, but in her bunk with the lights off, she still found herself wondering if she could have done better that day, if she could have altered one tiny thing and earned a commendation instead of a condemnation. She had convinced herself that she would never pry the latter from Nurse Forsythe regardless of her conduct or abilities, but deep in her heart of hearts, she longed for for it anyway, just as she once longed for even the faintest sign of approval from her father.

That line of reasoning always lead her to work harder and to improve upon herself; wracked with nerves and conscious of every move she made, she would carry out her duties like a woman with stage fright, which lead, inevitably, to an error. Yesterday, she was carrying a crate full of empty vials into the A-Deck recovery room when she stumbled; it fell from her hands and struck the floor with a calamitous sound of breaking glass. Nurse Forsythe, engaged in a disagreement with one of the officers, whipped around and flew over like a banshee, her brows knitting and fire filling her eyes. Lynn, standing with her hands fists defensively to her chest, winced and took the dressing down as best she could, moving aside to let the officer and several other nurses pass; each one of them glanced at her with pity, and her cheeks blazed with shame. _Look what you've done this time, you cross-eyed Irish wench. I task you the simplest thing I can think and you manage to bumble that like you bumble everything. Every other woman on this ship can make it more than five minutes without ruining something, why can't you?_

 _I-I'm sorry, ma'am,_ Lynn mumbled to her feet. Hot, stinging tears welled behind her eyes and she fought hard to keep them from overwhelming her.

Nurse Forsythe parked her hands on her ample hips, leaned in, and pulled her lips back from her crooked yellow teeth in a doggish sneer. _I'll say you are. Two days out and you've already broken something. Get the broom and clean this mess up, then go back to the hold and get more; try to do something right for once and don't drop these or else it's back to bed pan duty with you._

Feeling two inches tall, Lynn slunk off like a castigated dog and fetched the broom, her gaze downcast. She swept the glass while Nurse Forsyth stood behind her, pointing and spitting into her ear. _Get it all. Look, you missed a piece there. Are you blind as well as cross-eyed?_ When she was done, she returned the broom and stole away to her cabin, where she sat on the edge of the bed, covered her face with her apron, and wept. She should have jumped ship when she had the chance; she should never have enlisted in the first place.

She did, however, and that couldn't be helped. She had no choice but to see it through. When the war was over, she would leave and go somewhere she could start over. America, maybe, or Australia, a big place with wide, open space and plenty of room to lose herself in. She would meet a man, a farmer, perhaps, with strong hands that were tender only for her, and, from there, she would worry only after her children and her home.

That prospect flicked in her breast like a feeble spark. The more she pondered, the more she realized that she would very much like to be married, to have someone holding her through the long, cold nights, a hand to hold and a romance to last until the end of her days. Aside from the cobbler's son, she had never been the apple of a man's eye, and sometimes she feared that she never would be. The face that stared back from her mirror was homely and dull, like the Irish hills, and, indeed, one of her eyes was crossed, not by much but enough to be a constant source of shame.

Her mood darkened, but she forced those thoughts away and drew a deep, resolute breath. One thing at a time, girl. Getting to her feet, she returned to the deck and went about her day, moving with extra care and caution so as to not wreak anymore havoc.

Now, past midnight, she lay awake in her berth, hands laced on her chest and sleepless eyes pointed at the ceiling. Her bedside lamp cast an amber glow across the oak paneled walls, and cool air drifted in through the open porthole. Prior to unlatching it, the room was insufferably stuffy, not it was too cold and she shivered beneath the covers, goosebumps creeping up and down her arms and her nipples stiffening. She wore a modest white night dress that clung tight to her form, and if she laid just wrong, the fabric pooled between her legs, the warm, silken weight of it against her loins making her heartbeat quicken. When she first laid down, her mind traveled back to dropping the vials. She forced it to more...agreeable territory, and began to wonder what it would be like to be married. Not just the domestic trivialities or companionship of such an arrangement, but also other things, things that an upstanding girl ought not think of - strong, rough hands grazing her soft flesh; affectionate lips plating gentle kisses along the slope of her neck; powerful arms pulling her body flush with another; the moment of soul-stirring bliss when, with a tender thrust, two become one, as God intended.

Those were fantasies she rarely allowed herself to entertain, for they unfailingly lead her to where she was now: Skin flushed with fever, heart palpitating sickly against her ribs, stomach in knots, and loins burning with wet, sinful fire the likes of which only a draught of cold water could douse. Several times as she lie there, her legs began rubbing together as if on their own will, demon hands urging her to move faster and gather as much friction as it took to send her body tumbling into the Pit.

Presently, she took a deep, shuddery breath, swung her legs out from under the cover, and sat up, the uncomfortable sensation of moisture between her thighs giving testament to her wicked indulgence. Hot guilt colored the back of her neck and she swallowed thickly. She needed a walk. Those usually helped. She'd rather not take a cold shower but, if all else failed, she would.

Getting to her feet, she crossed to the wardrobe, pulled out her coat, a long, black affair with a belt and furry lapels, and shrugged into it. She slipped into her shoes, went to the nightstand, and retrieved a pack of Woodbine cigarettes. Next, she grabbed her lighter and shoved them both into her coat pocket. She paused at the mirror over the basin: Her thick brown hair was down and matted. She hurriedly put it up in a bun, then left. The hall, long and narrow in both directions, stood empty and dimly lit by brass, wall-mounted lamps, each door along its length firmly closed. Going left, the followed the corridor to the second class stairwell: The floor here was tile and surplus medical equipment - wheelchairs, bedpans, and other things - lined the walls of the landing.

Lynn climbed the steps to the boat deck by way of the first class smoking room, which had been converted to Royal Army Medical Corps offices, her hand trailing on the banister along the grand staircase, smooth but solid English oak containing elaborate wrought iron grilles with ormolu swags in the Louis XIV style. A giant glass and wrought iron dome allowed natural light to spill in during the day, setting the ornate woodwork afire with silvery suffusion, but now the only glow came from the lamp at the bottom of the Y-shaped passage. On the landing, a massive clock held aloft by richly carved figures struck the hour, and Lynn went right. As she passed, she met several RAMC officers, each dressed in full uniform - brown slacks, tunic, belt, cap, and Red Cross armband. They nodded politely and tipped their hats, and Lynn absently returned their greetings. Every one of them, Lynn noted, would make a fine husband, or it seemed.

Reaching a door marked BOAT DECK, she went through and into the chilly night, a shiver racing through her body. She crossed her arms over her chest and glanced forward, then aft: Lamps dotted the exterior walls, and in their muddled illumination, she discerned that she was alone save for the lifeboats festooned to their davits like spiders to webs. For once, she did not mind: Smoking was unladylike and earned her reprimanding glances from women, furrowed brows from men, and a verbal caning from Nurse Forsythe. She did it infrequently, sequestered in a dark, shadowy corner, but by the looks of it, she had full run of the ship.

Even so, abiding shame blossomed in her chest, and she crossed to the railing, boats on either side and shielding her from view. You would never know she was there unless you walked past.

She slipped a cigarette from her pack, stuck the end into her mouth, and pulled out her lighter, waiting for a cold gust of wind to die down before sparking it.

The wick did not catch.

Frowning, she tried again, but for naught, as her only reward was the dry, rusty grate of the wheel turning.

Sighing, she hanged her head in defeat. "Blimey," she muttered to herself.

* * *

Lincoln Loud stood on the starboard bridge wing and peered over the bow, his hands, clad in black leather gloves, resting on the chest-high wall running the length of the forward bridge. Below, the forecastle was dark and deserted, the only beings in the sight capstans, cranes, and cargo winches. Ahead, the forward mast jutted into the sky - he could not see crow's nest from here, but despite the wind, he fancied he could hear the lookouts talking to one another.

It was half past midnight and his watch was ending soon. His first night onboard, he took the midnight to four shift, observing First Officer Mason as training. He was apprehensive about taking sole command of the bridge, but quickly grew to enjoy the sense of responsibility. During his turns at the front, he imagined himself a master like Bartlett, whom he had already come to immensely respect. It was hard, then, to not walk about with his head held high and his back straight, the flush of importance and authority like a good, warm drunk. He was not unaware that such a feeling could lead to abuses of power, especially since he had a prime example before him each day: Stone, _Britannic's_ Chief Officer and resident tyrant.

Of course, as with many things in life, Lincoln's experience was not universal. Wright was the only one he'd spoken to in depth on the matter, and while the Fifth Officer was no friend of Stone himself, the treatment he received appeared to Lincoln a good sight better than that _he_ incurred. Lincoln's first full day on deck, he was watching over the boatswain and his men as they cleaned when Stone strode up and savagely tapped Lincoln on the shoulder, his finger hard and sharp as a blade. Where Lincoln came from, doing that to a man was a good way to earn a cloutting, superior or not. _Have your men swabbed the port foredeck?_ Stone asked.

 _Aye, sir,_ Lincoln replied.

 _Then would you care to account for the mess?_

Lincoln showed no expression, his upper lip stiff despite his confusion. Boatswain Thomas and the men under him had just returned from the port foredeck; Lincoln checked their work, found it satisfactory, and marked it DONE in his log. _Mess, sir?_ He asked evenly. The only ones with access to the foredeck were crew, Major Harrison of the RAMC, Mr. Rigby, Sergeant-Major of the Red Cross, and, owing to special circumstances, Nurse Forsythe - those circumstances being her deeply-held belief that her position as head nurse of one dead entitled her to special consideration. She was very much like Stone - were she younger or he older, they'd make a lovely pair. Regardless, only a small number of people were allowed on the port foredeck, so the chances of it being messed in so short a time were slim.

 _Mess,_ Stone repeated coldly, _follow me._

Offended but unwilling to allow his composure slippage, he followed Stone through the navigation bridge, crossing to port, and up the boat deck. At an alcove formed by the meeting of the officer's quarters and the wireless room, Stone stopped, turned to face Lincoln, and jabbed his finger at the deck. _This mess, Mr. Loud, the one you either missed through incompetence or blatantly ignored in a fit of apathy._

Lincoln's brow hardened and a ball of outrage ignited in his chest. In his time at sea, he had learned to take a lot, especially from a higher ranking crewmen, but standing there on the windy deck of _Britannic,_ he came disconcertingly close to offering a nasty rejoinder. Instead, he held his temper - purely out of respect - and looked to where Stone was pointing.

A tiny pile of gray ashed and tobacco, some of it brown but most charred black, stared up at him, some of it blowing away in the wind. Ten minutes ago, fifteen at the most, Lincoln closely inspected this part of the bridge, and the offending blight was not present. Someone must have come along and tapped his pipe after he retired to starboard. _This wasn't here when I did my round,_ he said steadily.

 _Hard to believe,_ Stone retorted, _as no one but myself has passed through._ With that, he pulled a pipe from the pocket of his overcoat and prodded it at the mess; sprinkles of brown tobacco fell like rain and joined the rubbish on the deck, the new indistinguishable from the old. Lincoln's eyes narrowed to slits, for understanding crested upon him like the spreading rays of the morning sun. Someone _did_ tap his pipe on the ground, and even now that someone was packing it again, a very faint but very pronounced light of smug merriment dancing in his blue eyes.

Had Stone been anyone but the chief deck officer, and had Lincoln not been so charitably promoted by the company as a trusted employee, he would have eaten that bloody pipe and gone over the side. Taking those factors into consideration, Lincoln simply nodded and promised to have one of the men come and clean up. _Good,_ Stone said, _and keep a closer watch on them. We're running a hospital, Mr. Loud, not a common doss-house_. He rudely bumped his shoulder into Lincoln's as he departed. Lincoln turned to watch him go, his twitching jaw betraying his anger. The proper thing to do would be lodging a complaint with Captain Bartlett, but meditating, Lincoln decided to forego such action. For one, it would likely serve only to make Stone more antagonistic in retribution, and for another, this was Lincoln's first full day on _Britannic,_ immediately crying foul - against the Chief Officer no less - could very well reflect poorly on him.

That, then, was where he stood. He shot a displeased look at the ash, then crossed back to starboard by way of the navigation bridge. Finding a seaman, he directed him to sweep the mess then went on with his work, forcing thoughts of Stone away lest they enrage him further.

He didn't have to strive very hard, it turned out, for less than twenty minutes later, he had the distinct displeasure of making Nurse Forsythe's acquaintance.

A squat bulldog of a woman with a doughy face and hard, glinting black eyes, Nurse Forsythe was in charge of the women on B-Deck, and was, admittedly, far more of a tyrant than Stone. The previous night, lying in bed, he and Wright chatted a bit, Wright cluing him in on shipboard politics, gossip, and the like. When the topic of Nurse Forsythe came up, the fifth officer made a sound of disgust. _She's the scourge of the deck, I say. You're apt to know her very well after the trip; she was constantly running Jessup down and squawking 'bout this 'n' that. I'd say I pity you, but better you than me!_

Lincoln was supervising a crew of men inspecting the lifeboats when the old hag stalked up - short, bullish, and tight-lipped, the wind rippling the white fabric of her dress and lending her the appearance of a giant and exceptionally ugly gull. _I've a problem,_ she grated, and it was clear from her tone that he, too, now had a problem.

 _Ma'am?_ Lincoln asked dispassionately.

 _Three vials of morphine are missing from my cabinet and I just know one of your men took them._

 _Did you see one of them acting suspiciously?_ Lincoln asked. None of the men currently in his employ - eight not counting Boatswain Thomas - had been authorized to leave the boat deck. Yesterday, after putting off, Major Harrison gave him a tour of the medical facilities: Offices off A-Deck, sick wards and operating theaters on B, isolation wards, quarters, and the mess hall on C, and, finally, D, where one would find the patient's dining room, intensive care units, and lavatories. Major Harrison entrusted him with a set of keys that opened every room currently in Royal Army Medical Corps use in the event he needed them. He was still waiting on a complete inventory of supplies, and would be, he reckoned, until at least tomorrow, as some poor RAMC sap had to count it all by hand.

 _No, but who other than an opiate addled seaman would steal morphine intended for the boys?_

Lincoln could have retorted but chose not to. _Perhaps they were misplaced?_

 _I counted the stock myself. Three were there this morning, now they're gone. Come see for yourself._

She whipped around and stormed off, stopping and casting a lowered glance over her shoulder. _Come on, then, see what your barbarians have done._

Inwardly sighing, Lincoln looked at the clipboard in his hands, then to Boatswain Thomas, who knelt next to one of the crane davits, a panel open and the inner workings of its motor laid bare. _Can I step away for a moment?_ Lincoln asked.

Boatswain Thomas lifted one hand but did not look up. _Aye, sir, I've a handle on this 'ere._

Nodding, Lincoln followed Nurse Forsythe through a gangway and down a set of metal stairs to the A-Deck promenade, which ran the entire length of the ship, enclosed for much of the way. As they went, Nurse Forsythe groused incessantly. _You sailors are as bad as the Irish. Are you Irish, young man?_

 _No, ma'am,_ Lincoln said, _I was born in London._

 _Then perhaps you've at least a shred of decency about you. I want the scoundrel who did this shut in the brig. He shouldn't be too hard to find; opium freaks are shiftless, you know. Most likely passed out in a stairwell somewhere in front of God and everyone like a common sot._ She shook her head sadly as she lead him through a doorway. Inside, a hall lead to the first class dining saloon, presently the ship's largest and best equipped operating room. Just past the gangway, she ducked into a storage room: Crates, metal cabinets with glass doors, boxes, and medical supplies flanked the walls, revealed in gray, muted light falling softly through the windows. She snapped on a light and pointed at a cabinet directly ahead, its doors standing open. _There. The manifest is on the first shelf, count everything and see what else your villains stole_.

See here, Lincoln was getting peeved at her insulting his crew, and were she a man, even a man as important as Stone, he would have said so _._ _Yes, ma'am._ He crossed to the cabinet, picked up the inventory sheet, and laid it on his clipboard. He scanned the log then carefully counted each vial, tube, and bottle: Morphine, aspirin, anesthetic, and a thousand other medicines for everything from toothaches to severe burns to sleeplessness. He counted eight vials of morphine then consulted the manifest.

 _8 morp._

He frowned slightly, recounted, then looked again.

Eight.

He looked over his shoulder at Nurse Forsythe, who filled the doorframe, arms crossed and a scowl on her face. She couldn't have been more than fifty - the hair peeking out from beneath her white cap was coal black with nary a hint of gray - but she reminded him of sour old women he knew in Whitechapel, the kind who'd been beaten and sullied by life and came out the other side hating everyone and everything. _Ma'am?_

 _What else is missing?_ she spat with the self-assuredness of a woman who'd seen the future with her own eyes.

 _Nothing, ma'am. In fact, none of the morphine is gone either._

She knitted her brow and came over. _What?_

Lincoln stepped aside and tapped the manifest with his pencil. _Eight marked here and eight in the hold._

Flashing, she snatched the sheet away, studied it, then counted, tapping each jar with her index finger. A shadow of confusion flickered across her face, and from that alone, Lincoln was able to tell that, unlike Stone, she was not giving him the runaround: She sincerely believed some of the drug to be missing. She counted three more times before shaking her head. _The thief must have put it back,_ she declared.

Hm. Couldn't admit her own mistake. Lincoln wasn't surprised. She seemed the sort - they're never to blame, and when you offer evidence to the contrary, they'll foolishly maintain that they are right regardless. _Thank the heavens for_ that _at least._

Lincoln opened his mouth to ask whether or not she required his presence further - as he wanted to make sail away from her and her dogged self-righteousness as quickly as possible - but cut off when something shattered against the ground. He and his present company looked up as one to find a nurse standing in the doorway, her head down in contrition and her hands fisted to her chest, her face frozen in the scolded wince of a young girl who'd done something wrong and knew she was in the soup.

All at once, Nurse Forsythe was off, jabbing her finger at the poor girl and looming over her like the mistress of a plantation o'er an errant house slave. _Look what you've done this time, you cross-eyed Irish wench. I task you the simplest thing I can think and you manage to bumble that like you bumble everything. Every other woman on this ship can make it more than five minutes without ruining something, why can't you?_

Raising his brow, Lincoln observed coolly. Bloody hell, and he thought Stone was bad. A day or two under this woman and he'd be begging for the man.

The girl hung her head in disgrace and nodded miserably in agreement with all of Nurse Forsythe's ignominies. Muted sympathy panged in Lincoln's stomach and he shifted his weight uncomfortably.

He meant to wait out the storm so that he could be formally dismissed, but the old women kept right along, dressing the nurse down once, twice, three times; had the admonishment been physical, the girl would have been battered and bloodied by now.

Finally, he closed the cabinet doors and crossed to where the dust up was even now occurring. _I really should be getting back,_ he said as he brushed past. Nurse Forsythe made no acknowledgement, having finished with him.

Today was a bit easier, though Stone made it a point to come round every so often and criticize the quality of his work. This afternoon, the seamen were engaged in painting along the boat deck, and though they did a top job of it, Stone was unhappy...especially when he leaned against a section and got white on the arm of his coat. _There should be a sign here, Mr. Loud,_ he said, _why isn't there a sign? I ought to have the cost of my jacket docked from your pay._ There was indeed a sign...for some odd reason, however, it lay face down on the deck. _I apologize, sir,_ Lincoln said, even though he was fairly sure that Stone himself sabotaged the sign so that he had something to be on about. Some people are like that: Not satisfied unless they're upset. Poor buggers was what Lincoln called them in his more charitable moments; bastards is what he called them the rest of them time.

At dinner in the officer's mess, he sat across from Wright and confided in him regarding Stone's actions. _Huh,_ Wright said, _I guess he just doesn't like you._

 _I'll say,_ Lincoln said and carved a piece of roast with his fork, _can't claim to like him much either._

Presently, Lincoln stared out into the night, looking for anything suspicious but knowing he probably wouldn't see anything until it was too late. German U-Boats were known to be active in the area, and he paid special attention to the sea, searching for the telltale white streak of an oncoming torpedo but finding only slick-black, moon-dappled surf.

A steward appeared at his left holding a saucer upon which rested a cup. Steam curled up and blew away in the breeze. "Your tea, sir."

Lincoln took it. "Thank you."

Nodding, the steward rushed off, leaving him alone. Pinching the saucer between his thumb and forefinger, he lifted the cup to his lips, puffed, and took a sip, the liquid hot against his lips. Ahead, lights appeared in the distance to the north. That would be Gibraltar, the gateway to the Mediterranean. From there, _Britannic_ would steam east northeast toward the craggy Italian coastline. They would dock at Naples about the seventeenth, barring unforeseen circumstances. From there, it was onto Lemnos, Greece, to take on sick and wounded from the recent campaigns.

Taking another sip, Lincoln returned to the darkened wheelhouse, where Quartermaster Hutchens, a tall man with a neatly coiffed mustache, stood at the helm. Lincoln went over to the binnacle, checked the compass, and glanced at Hutchens. "Steady ahead." It was a cursory order, a formality if anything, but a ship thrives on routine and ritual.

"Aye, sir."

On the port wing bridge, the cold air flowing over him and numbing his face, Lincoln squinted toward Spain. He took a sip and sighed contentedly. Yes, he very much enjoyed watchstanding. Not only did it make him feel vital, it was also the most peaceful time of his day save for bed, but even then there was Wright, who fancied talking until he collapsed from exhaustion. Lincoln liked the man enough, but he would like him a bit more if he'd close his mouth every once in a while.

"We're passing Gibraltar, then," a voice said beside him, and he turned to find First Officer Mason, a nondescript man of interment height and average weight. His face was like a thousand others and his voice unremarkable. He was the very picture of physical mediocrity. His position as First Officer, however, marked him as a man who knew what he was doing and did it better than most; for that, and his even temperament, Lincoln respected him.

"Aye, sir," he said and took a drink of his tea. "Steady on course and nothing to report."

Mason nodded curtly. "Right then. You're off. See you tomorrow."

"You too, sir."

Lincoln crossed through the navigation bridge and started for the entrance to the officer's quarters, but decided to stroll the deck and smoke first. He finished his tea and took the cup to the stewards' mess next to the barber shop, then slipped his cigarette case from his coat pocket. Walking leisurely aft, he removed one, put it into his mouth, and lit it, the harsh smoke filling his lungs and rushing to his brain like a tide of euphoria. He thought for some reason of Nurse Forsythe and her assertion that one of his men took her morphine because he was an opium freak. The more he entertained it, the more offended he became - he grew up amongst opium freaks, and to him, there was so more abject insult than to be lumped in with people of that stock.

Amidships now, his attention was arrested by a soft, rusty grating sound followed by a breathy, hissing oath. "Bloody goddamn thing. Work." He looked to his left, and a figure stood in a pool of shadow betwixt two lifeboats; a spill of light from an exterior lamp revealed it to be a woman with long chestnut colored hair held back in a sloppy, disheveled bun. A thick winter coat reached her ankles and, as Lincoln watched, she hunched forward, a cigarette jutting from her thin lips, one hand cupping the other, a lighter in the latter and sparking impotently. Her brow wrinkled in frustration and her eyes shone with evident irritation.

Amused, Lincoln walked over; she was none the wiser to his presence until he held out his lighter and lit it. She jumped a foot and pressed one clawed hand to her chest, the cigarette dropping from her mouth and landing on the deck. "Sorry to frightening you, miss," Lincoln said, "appears you're having a spot of trouble."

The woman favored him warily, as though he were Satan incarnate come to trade a light for her soul. In the glow of the lamp, her big, doe-like eyes sparkled a limpid brown and the freckles smattered across her harried face seemed to swirl like celestial constellations. Her chest gently rose and fell as she fought to catch her runaway breath, and, all at once, she came alive, stooping down to pick up her fallen cigarette. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come up," she said in a very faint Irish accent. She put the cigarette into her mouth and Lincoln touched the flame to the end; she inhaled the smoke and nodded her thanks, the tip of her cigarette smoldering orange.

Lincoln put the lighter away and took a puff of his own. "Cold night," he said by way of conversation, having noticed a light flush about her face.

"Very cold," she said, her breath misting in front of her. "I musta been here ten minutes trying to get my lighter to work." She uttered a humorless laugh and turned to the railing. "I appreciate it."

"No bother," Lincoln said. He turned his head up to the moon, its dim light illuminating the sky. "Nothing quite as tragic as needing a smoke but not having a light."

The woman hummed her agreement and took another puff, one arm crossing her chest and propping beneath her opposite elbow. "Or needing one and not being able to have it."

"I take it you're a nurse," Lincoln said. There were, if he recalled, seventy-seven of them aboard, all female. There were no other women and, outside of the crew and the RAMC detachments, no other people. "You're not allowed to smoke on duty, are you?"

The woman shook her head sadly. "No. And if the head nurse saw me doing it at all, she'd draw and quarter me."

Following a hunch, Lincoln asked, "Forsythe?"

The woman grimaced, as though simply hearing the name caused her pain, and nodded.

"She's quite charming, that one," Lincoln said with a trace of sarcasm.

Smiling wanly, the woman said, "Try working under her."

A group of RAMC men passed behind them, talking lowly and smoking pipes. "I've considered what that must be like," Lincoln said. "Think I'd rather jump into the drink."

The woman laughed, more genuinely this time, light and airy, reminding Lincoln of warm spring wind in lush green treetops. "She's a curse." Seeming to think better of her words, perhaps worried that Lincoln would report her to the hag, she said, "Pardon my saying so. She can be quite difficult sometimes."

"I've noticed," he replied archly, "I made her acquaintance yesterday. Can't say I enjoyed it."

"No one ever does," she said. "Least I don't fathom they do." She took a drag, tilted her head back, and blew out a long stalk of smoke that dispersed on the wind. Lincoln quietly studied her from the corner of his eye, his gaze traveling over her features. Her facial structure was pleasing, her pert, upturned nose and freckles lending her a vulnerable, girlish appearance, as though she belonged at home with her mother and not at sea in the midst of such a big war, Dark bags bespeaking long hours and sleepless night hung beneath her eyes and moonlight drenched her lusterless hair. She was rather on the plain side, but Lincoln found himself unable to look away, not entirely captivated but relishing her countenance nevertheless. She darted him a distressed glance, noticed him looking at her, and quickly turned her head away as though to hide herself and the deepening flush of her cheeks.

Lincoln realized with quiet horror that he was all but leering at the poor girl, and faced the sea, missing a beat as he searched for an excuse. "I didn't mean to stare, miss, I was wondering after your age. You look far too young for an RAMC post. Unless they've lowered the threshold without my knowing."

"Nineteen," the woman said. "I'll be twenty in December."

She wasn't much younger than his was. Or many of the boys currently fighting in Europe, for that matter. "Have you been in long?" he asked simply for something to say. The minimum age for volunteering with the RAMC was eighteen, though, if he recalled, there were detachments of younger corps members on the homefront.

"Almost two years," she said and took a drag. "I applied when I was seventeen."

Lincoln nodded. "How long have you been on _Britannic?"_

She thought for a moment, her head tilting back, one eye squinting in concentration, and the corner of her mouth curling slightly, these ticks combining in a prepossessing manner that Lincoln could not help but find fetching. He turned his head to her, and his recalcitrant eyes traced the smooth curve of her jaw, wandering about her soft countenance like distrait schoolboys gathering wool whilst the headmaster droned. A serendipitous gust of wind came over them, and brought, or so Lincoln imagined, her clean scent to his nose, fresh and pure like spring rain.

In the light of the Mediterranean moon, she was quite lovely.

"Almost a year," she said with a slow nod. She attempted to look at him, but her eyes darted away again like timid goldfish in a bowl.

"That long?" he asked with earnest curiosity.

She nodded. "That long." She closed her mouth then, as if making a dark, painful confession, she added, "It feels like much longer sometimes."

Lincoln dragged on his cigarette and blew the smoke out. "I can imagine," he said. He'd never seen the effects of war himself, but from what the papers described - aeroplanes, machine guns, tanks, and artillery - he could vividly picture the horrors it had visited on boys both British and otherwise. Blasted bones, charred flesh, missing limbs - it was enough to make one ill if they entertained it too long. Surely this attractive creature had endured the worst of it in her capacity as a nurse. "I don't think I could stomach your line of work," he said honestly.

"Sometimes I don't think I can either," she said heavily. "It's hard to take. Seeing so much suffering. I started here because I wanted to help and it was the only way I could, but now I think maybe...maybe I regret it." Her words came in a rush, as though she'd been holding them in for a long period of time and wanted, nay, needed to get them out. Her eyes widened strickenedly when she realized she'd poured out her soul to a complete stranger. "I-I'm sorry," she stammered, "I've just been thinking a great deal about my lot recently."

Flicking his cigarette over the side, Lincoln gripped the railing and stared off into the night so as not to further embarrass her. "Understandable. I was being sincere when I said I couldn't do it. The fact that you _have,_ and for a year at that, makes you stronger than I." He paused and resisted the urge to look and see whether his compliment affected her - he suddenly wished to see her smile. Would it light up her face? He imagined it would, and the sight would surely rival even the most beautiful ocean sunset. "If you'd rather not do it any longer, then don't."

The woman sighed. "It isn't that simple."

"Why not?"

She opened her mouth, then snapped it closed again. "I'd rather not discuss it. It's...it's somewhat personal." She bowed her head demurely and threw her cigarette into the sea.

"Very well," he said, injecting the words with as much warmth as was acceptable under the circumstances. She seemed to tense slightly like a bashful fox preparing to take a hurried leave, and a twinge of loss pinched Lincoln's stomach. He was taken with her diffidence and agreeable features and didn't want her to go; he wanted to chat her up and come to know her better. That was unlikely to happen, however, as she looked ready to depart. He wanted to at least learn her name before she did so. "Might I know who I've had the distinct pleasure of speaking to?" he asked.

She stole a look at him, and his keen eye noted the deepening of her blush and the delighted upward twist of her lips. "Lynn," she said.

"Glad to make your acquaintance," Lincoln said, "I'm Lincoln."

"It's nice to meet you too," Lynn said. "I really must be going."

Ah. He was hoping to persuade her to linger, but in vain, it seemed. "Right," he said, "I'd better go myself." He pushed away from the rail and turned. Lynn flashed a tight smile, her eyes flicking appraisingly from his feet to his head, then looked as though she were going to speak. Instead, she turned and rushed off with her head down. She was either being coy or simply didn't fancy him; either way, he watched her go with the most peculiar and irrational sense of longing. Taking a deep breath, he started back toward the officers' quarters, hands slipping into his coat pockets. This wasn't the first time he'd noticed a woman, of course, but something struck him as different about it, perhaps...a tad deeper? How he could rightly think that without even properly knowing her, he could not say, and that unsettled him, for, like noticing a woman, this wouldn't be the first time he'd convinced himself he felt something for one when he shouldn't. He'd see one of the train or walking across the deck, and something would draw him - the radiance of her smile, perhaps, or a certain light in her eyes - and he would get carried away if he allowed himself, to the point of dreamily thinking words like _love_. Only a fool - or a poet - develops feelings for a woman he does not know, and Lincoln Loud was neither.

He _was_ a man, however, and every man has certain needs, both physical and spiritual. The soft warmth of a woman...the closeness of her body and of her heart; the base and the transcendental. Having those needs unmet tends to make him batty, which is where the poet comes from, a man who feels too deeply and too strongly. A lot of rot if you asked Lincoln. He was closer to that than he liked to admit, and it was a weakness that dogged him if he let it.

So he wouldn't.

Putting Lynn out of his mind, he stepped into the warm officers' quarters and closed the door behind him, then removed his cap by force of habit. He visited the washroom then went to his cabin: Wright sat up in bed with a Wodehouse novel open on his lap. "Bout time you showed," he said sourly, "have you any idea what I've gone through today?"

Lincoln's step faltered. No, he did not.

Wright looked up. "I iron your shirts, raise your children, and slave over a hot stove only for you to waltz through the door after midnight smelling of another woman. I ought to divorce you." He snapped the book closed and shot Lincoln a withering glare. "What does she give you that I can't?"

Chuckling, Lincoln crossed to the wardrobe and shrugged out of his overcoat. Wright, ever the jocular sort, had already pulled this once - playing the role of the nagging wife for what reason he alone knew - and Lincoln was a bit vexed that he was fooled again. Wright, he quickly discovered, had not a single serious bone in his body. He was the sort of man who'd tell his bride jokes as they consummated their marriage - or perhaps _in place_ of consummating their marriage. "To start with," Lincoln said and hung up his coat, followed by his suit jacket, "she's younger than you and not as soft round the middle."

A vision of Lynn crossed his mind, and he frowned.

Wright _humphed_ and opened his book again. "Maybe _she_ can bear you a son. Since Lincoln Jr. isn't yours."

Lincoln sat on the edge of the bed, untied his shoes, then kicked them off. He got up, went over, and dropped onto Wright's. "Don't be that way, dear," he said and laid his hand on Wright's leg.

"Don't touch me," Wright said, then, "I mean it, you're not my type, Mr. Loud."

Chuckling, Lincoln got to his feet. "And what is your type?"

"I take my men as I take my coffee. Black."

Lincoln looked at him and he at Lincoln, then they both broke into side-splitting laughter. "Well, to each his own," Lincoln said.

"I hear Stone's available," Wright replied and opened his book again. "The way he acts around you is rather like a schoolboy with a crush."

Sitting on his own bed once more, Lincoln stretched out. "He's about as irritating as one." Even as he spoke, revelation dawned over him.

That was precisely how _he_ felt in regards to Lynn the nurse.

Hm.

He didn't like it.


	3. Deeper

**I forgot to address this in the previous chapter's note, but the first segment, where Winslow meets Lincoln, was from his perspective, and he put Lincoln at "about sixty-eight" since he didn't know his actual age. Also, the** _ **Britannic**_ **was a real ship but all of the characters are fictitious in one way or another save for Captain Bartlett - he's the only real historical figure in it. I always tread lightly when I write real people because I don't want to portray them unfairly (except for Tex Watson and the other Manson Family members in** _ **Reeling in the Years,**_ **they were pieces of shit, fuck them).**

* * *

 _ **November 19, 1916**_

Lynn jabbed the end of a syringe into a vial, pulled the plunger back slowly, and then tapped the shaft with her index finger to remove air bubbles. Done, she sat the vial on the bedside table and looked down at her charge, a young man, twenty, whose gauze-wrapped face pointed up at the ceiling, a long, narrow slit about the eyes revealing a steady and disquietingly unwavering gaze. His name was Charles, and he'd been a private in the 21st London Brigade stationed on the island of Malta. At the Battle of the Somme, he took a bullet to the shoulder whilst going over the top, and lay in the mud for an hour, during which time a cloud of German mustard gas swept across the field, blistering his unprotected flesh. He would have died had he not the presence of mind to roll onto his stomach and cover himself the best he could. Living, however, can be just as tragic as dying, Lynn had learned, and his was a prime case. He passed his unmedicated moments in excruciating agony, and, if infection didn't take him, he'd emerge horribly disfigured.

He, and a dozen others, were admitted on Friday the seventeenth, at the port of Naples, for _Britannic's_ usual coalling and water refueling stop. None of them were over the age of twenty-three, and all of them presently occupied beds in the open ward on B-Deck, off the promenade, a mixed assortment of woe and misery, the very thought of which made Lynn's stomach clench and her heartbeat race. Since their embarkation, she greeted each day with drawing desperation, quiet dread building within as she forced herself into the ward. The worst part of it all was that some of the men were well enough to be conscious and in their right minds - they were the ones who stared off into space as though reliving the horrors they saw in France; they shook when the ship's whistle blew, and woke weeping unashamedly from nightmares like small boys. The first day they were aboard, she sat with one, a Major, through the night, holding his hand because he was too frightened to be alone.

Like most of the British public, she'd been lead to believe that men who went to war were brave and steely, and always came home full of interesting stories and humorous anecdotes; she was shocked, then, to find most of the boys returning from the front were just that, boys, scared, hurt, and unable to even smile. Perhaps owing to her gender, the deeper aspects - the mental wounds, tears, and abiding dread - impacted her just as greatly as the physical trauma. War had, to her, always seemed an adventure, something to be gone into lightly, but after her time on _Britannic,_ she'd come to believe that nothing save for direct defense of the homeland from an enemy invasion was worth fighting for. Nothing justified the barbarism she had witnessed, and, were it her decision, she would end it all this moment.

It was not, however; she could not stop the bloodshed, she could only pick up behind it like a dutiful yet long-suffering mother. The effect of being round the boys was inexplicable - it made her want to flee just as strongly as it made her want to care for them. Conflicting emotions vied for dominance in her chest the way German and British armies vied for control of French soil. She wished to tenderly nurse them, but at the same time, she wanted nothing to do with them or the sleepless nights they wrought.

Presently, a frown creased her tired face. Charles - his surname - peered at the fashionable timber joists running cross the ceiling. She joined her gaze to his, and sighted in his eyes the first gathering clouds of torment. The morphine she administered to him that morning had begun to wear off, and the agony of his condition was returning. As any typical Englishman, he weathered his pain in stoic silence, and always had.

She took a deep, calming breath, bent, and circled her fingers around his wrist, turning his arm so that his palm faced up. She sought a vein, found it, and sank the point of the needle in, whereupon she pushed the plunger, sending a rush of morphine into his system. He shifted his eyes in her direction, providing her a quick glimpse into hell, then back to the joists, his chest rising and falling under the blanket in a sigh of resignation. "The storm finally ended," she commented as she carefully withdrew the needle from his arm. She did her best to talk to the men as the idea of simply jabbing them and rushing off, as though they weren't human beings in need of the same love, compassion, and comfort she herself required, disturbed her to no end. "We left Naples while you were out."

 _Britannic_ docked Friday afternoon and was scheduled to depart that evening, but a nasty storm blew in and detained the vessel at port until today, Sunday. The weather was still off, sky gray and swell heavy, but Captain Bartlett was apparently taxed by the wait. Having the patients aboard, as few in number as they were, occupied Lynn's time. Nurse Forsythe put her on overnight watch Friday, and she passed the long, lonely hours sitting in a chair between two beds, reading by soft lamplight and listening to the howling of the wind, getting up when one of the men needed her.

As was routinely the case, she fell into meditation during her time alone. Rather than her shortcomings, however, she thought quite often of the officer she met the other night. She was too shy to look him full in the face for very long, but from what she did see of him, he was handsome, his features rugged and distinctly masculine. His brown eyes, though, were soft and kind, and when she first noticed that fact, her heart jigged queerly against her breast. His voice, too, was tender, and as she lie in bed at night, she summoned it as best she could, listening to it again and again on a loop the way one might listen to a favorite song on a gramophone.

She was not unaccustomed to being smitten, but she'd not felt it in years, and she though she strove to get her head about her and forget him, she quickly came to relish indulging in them. Of course, she was smart enough to realize that it was rash and improper, but she could not help being a lonely woman at sea who wished to be married and held. She noticed men more, perhaps, than she should, and often imagined herself wed to them - and all that that entailed. She could tell herself any number of things about Officer Lincoln, but the simple fact of the matter was that she was akin to a hungry soul, and when one is hungry, they make no distinction between fare. They see food and want it. That's to say: Her budding infatuation was centered not round him as a person, but him as a man, interchangeable with any other. That unnerved Lynn because such courses of thinking belong to strumpets and women of loose morals, of which she was neither. As desperation grew, however, she could not ensure that she would not act as such.

The greatest lie to ever be told, Lynn was coming to believe, was that each person who conducts themselves in a certain way does it for all the same reasons. Immoral women who delighted in sins of the flesh existed, to be sure, but how many women take a man to bed not because she is a Jezebel, but simply because she was lonely and could no longer bear yearning for touch, intimacy, and affection but not receiving it? How many couldn't stand to be unmarried any more and bowled headlong into something the wrong way? A sizable number, she reckoned, and she feared that she would become one of them. In her state, all a man had to do was show her a modicum of kindness and be passably attractive, and she'd be reduced to a schoolgirl and, mayhap, even worse.

Even still, Officer Lincoln had been much on her mind in recent days, and there were times when she would go out on deck hoping to encounter him...then near doubling over with cramps when she actually did. Yesterday, during the storm, their paths crossed on the grand first class staircase, she going down and he going up, trailed by a yammering Nurse Forsythe. Lynn's heart sputtered to a stop and she ducked her head, hurrying her step and sparing him a sidelong glance. He nodded politely, but the marked twitching at the corner of his lips betrayed him, and, she thought, signified his pleasure at seeing her.

How pathetic a wench was she!

Now, she laid the syringe on the nightstand and smoothed out the front of her apron. "The weather should be warming up some," she said and averted her eyes from Charles's upturned face. "We'll be able to open the windows and have fresh air."

The battered man hummed beneath his dressings and turned his head to the right, away from her, which was his way of saying he wished to be left alone. He was the most melancholic of the patients and it broke Lynn's heart to see. He needed a woman to love and care for him, a wife who'd do whatever it took to bring him back from the awful things done to him.

Her frown deepened and she forced her eyes to the floor, ashamed of herself for thinking such a thing. What pitiful creature can't make it past a man without wishing for his touch and to touch him in return? Physical touch, emotional touch, it was the same, constantly yearning for one of the other - or both - makes for a wretched, desperate woman.

Heaving a sigh, she collected the syringe and turned to go. At the end of the ward, by the exit opening onto the promenade deck, Colleen Kennedy, a thin, mousy woman with black hair tucked under her cap, save for a harried strand that fell across her pale face, attended to a man missing both arms. Of all the nurses, Lynn got on with Colleen the best - they were the same age, from the same part of Ireland, and of similar disposition. They were not particularly close, but enough that they were friendly.

As Lynn passed, Colleen joined her, and together they went onto the promenade deck, a light, cool breeze blew. "This day is killing me," Colleen said, her accent thick. She served the night shift then, at Nurse Forsythe's whim, the morning and afternoon ones as well. Dark bags hung under her tired eyes and her clear skin appeared thinner and grayer than normal.

"When are you off?" Lynn asked. Though the sky was ashen and shot through with ominous patches of black, the air was far warmer than it had been before they crossed into the Mediterranean.

Colleen hanged her head in exhaustion. "Five O'clock," she said.

It was presently half past three. In an hour and a half, dinner would be served in the dining hall on D-Deck; the patients who were able would be wheeled down in chairs via the elevator and sup in a massive banquet area. The others would take their repast in bed.

"Buck up, it's only a bit longer," Lynn said, as though she knew anything about bucking up. Perhaps she did, but she didn't feel it.

"That's easy for you to say," Colleen said, "you've not been awake thirty-six hours."

Lynn winced. "That long then?"

Major Harrison, supreme commander of the RAMC detachment, appeared from a doorway ahead and started in their direction. A tall, stately man with graying hair and a mustache, he wore a brown uniform with a cap, a belt across his chest and a white armband with a red cross around his left arm. His stern, wrinkled face belied his jovial nature, and as he strode past, he nodded to them. "Afternoon, Miss O'Rourke, Miss Kennedy."

They both nodded back and offered their own greeting. Major Harrison made it a point to know the names of everyone under his command and to treat them with a respect and dignity his station did not enjoin. A small courtesy though it may have been, Lynn appreciated it - a touch of warm and personable familiarly in the sea of stilted professional standoffishness. As was her way, that tiny bit of kindness lead her to imagine herself married to him. Not seriously, mind you, but idly and with a lack of profundity, the way a woman imagines herself in a nice hat that she either cannot afford or is unwilling to actually purchase.

That analogy summed her up perfectly. Browsing, as it were, with no intention of buying. At least at the present moment. She would one day if an agreeable sort made an honest try for her heart, until then, she'd other things to worry about, like the men under her care, and the ones being picked up tomorrow from the port of Catania, a full thirty, which would bring the total of wounded onboard to over fifty. Those poor, blighted souls - the whole lot of them - deserved her full and attention, thus her girlish flights of fancy would simply have to wait.

Someone somewhere, maybe Old Scratch himself, heard her vow and tempted her. Ahead, who should descend a set of stairs to the boat deck but Officer Lincoln, Officer Wright at his left elbow. Lynn's stomach clutched and her throat instantly ran dry. They were both clad in dark blue uniforms - slacks, short waisted suit coats with gold buttons, and caps. Her eyes went to Lincoln's strong, manly jaw and an unnameable quiver rippled through her midsection. She urged herself to look away, but he held her gaze like the tide, pulling her inexorably closer. He glanced at Wright, flashed a wan smile at something the man said, then turned and spotted her, a flash, as of recognition but different, flickered through his eyes, and the simper he still wore brightened ever so slightly.

She felt rather than saw Colleen tense, and that broke the spell. She came alive and whipped her face to the deck, heat spreading across her cheeks and her heart slamming faster. As they passed, she was powerless to keep from stealing a sidelong look. His lips were turned up more sharply in a small but unmistakable smile, the beauty of which made Lynn's already overtaxed heart pitter-patter stupidly. Wright cracked a boyish grin of his own and tipped his hat. "Afternoon, Miss'n'Miss. Lovely day."

Lynn mumbled that it was, and Colleen choked out something that may have been "Indeed is." Once they were past, Lynn's neck muscles strained to turn so that her gaze could linger on Lincoln, but she successfully resisted it.

"That's the one you fancy, isn't it?" Colleen asked. They were climbing the stairs to the boat deck now, Lynn in front and Colleen behind, as the passage was not wide enough to accommodate two people walking abreast.

Lynn's stomach knotted and her step faltered. Her first instinct was to deny the charge, but it was true, she did fancy him. "He's very dashing in that uniform of his," she said, and surprised herself by giggling like a girl. Colleen did as well, her face blushing as red, if not redder, than Lynn's.

"They're both very handsome," Colleen said with a forthrightness that Lynn had rarely seen from her. She smiled dreamily and tilted her head back, a breath of wind flipping the loose strand of hair from her face. "I fancy Officer Wright myself," she said. "He's always so bouncy and chipper. It's endearing."

To the right, the sea stretched off to the horizon, where a line of golden sunlight marked the end of the ill weather. Lynn swallowed thickly and toyed with the bun of her hair purely to give her hand something to do. "Officer Loud strikes me as a very kind man," she said shortly, her blush deepening. She was not accustomed to discussing matters such as these aloud, and being so open made her a touch uncomfortable.

"He does, what I've seen of him," Colleen said thoughtfully, then: "I'd rather like it if Officer Wright chatted me up, though I might turn to porage." She laughed airly.

A laugh that died when Nurse Forsythe stepped sternly from the first class entrance, her eyes narrow and her hands on her hips. "There you are, you Irish slags; just when I thought you couldn't get any worse, you tarry about as though you're on holiday."

All the good, warm feelings in Lynn's breast went the way of Colleen's laughter.

Some days, she thought she outright hated that old woman.

* * *

"Which one's caught your eye, Mr. Loud? I know it's one of 'em."

Lincoln and Wright strolled leisurely along the promenade deck, their steps unhurried; they were both on duty and engaged in separate tasks on the boat deck, but Wright grabbed Lincoln from his post for _a spot of courtship_ \- which is what he called dilly-dallying. The fifth officer's philosophy was that "a man needs to come up for air in the middle of his working day," an outlook that Lincoln was slowly, and begrudgingly, coming to share. During the storm that kept _Britannic_ docked at Naples, one of the crane davits was damaged by the wind, and Lincoln had been working on it, along with Boatswain Thomas, since morning. Lincoln was not normally a man to take leave, no matter how temporary, before completing the work before him, but he needed a respite, and walking the deck with Wright whilst smoking sounded like just the thing.

Then his path crossed with Lynn's, and his momentary vacation turned into something more vexing. Since the night he spoke to her on the deck, he thought of her quite a lot, an ailment that was exacerbated by meeting her several times on deck in the days following and letting his gaze wander about her. She was short and slight, her figure decidedly feminine, and one of her brown eyes was slightly askance, a flaw that he found strangely winsome. Her features were what one might consider ordinary, even homely, but to Lincoln, they were wholly enticing, from her freckled cheeks to her pale pink lips, thin but alluring all the same, inviting him to lean in and taste them…

Something jammed into his side and he jerked like a man waking from a deep sleep. "Eh?" Wright pressed, a knowing twinkle in his eye. "She got you balmy on the crumpet, hasn't she? Who's the unlucky gal, then? The brunette? The black-headed one?"

Lincoln hesitated. He got on with Wright fairly well, but not well enough that he was comfortable confiding something so personal in him. He didn't want to lie either, so he settled for a compromise. "They're both very lovely."

With a snort, Wright said, "You're holding back. You're sweet on one of 'em, I can tell it. Nothing the matter with that, mate, it's natural. You've ever...known a woman?"

Shock and outrage burst through Lincoln's center like a bomb. "That's not something you ask a man," he spat coldly.

"Blind me," Wright drew, "forget I asked."

"With pleasure."

His reaction to that question was based entirely on his principles of conduct, not upon the fact that he had _not_ known a woman. He was still a boy when he put off to sea, at a stage in life where his opinion of girls was one of indifference. He grew into a man on a freighter in the South Pacific, far removed from women. Since then, he'd been to consumed with his work to stop long enough for romance. A courtship, like a flower, requires time and constant nurturing. You cannot wantonly snatch a woman from the street and drag her to the altar - and God, why would you? Lincoln had not given much serious consideration to holy matrimony, but it seemed the sort of thing one shouldn't go into lightly. Marriage, as he understood it, was a lifelong proposition, a union that could be entered into but not backed out of. You get one shot and the way he saw it, you should know full well what you're doing before you do it - and know exactly who you're dedicating your forever to.

As for primal desires of the flesh...he certainly had them but he did not nourish them. The men to whom he looked, men like Captain Bartlett, were, in his mind at least, above such crass longings. They were like Christ - beyond lowly vulgarities, a being that was human but more. From the time he was a lad, he made every effort to be as they were, and when he encountered a problem in life, he asked himself what they would do. On the topic of women, they would not engage in the shameful practice of onanism no matter how badly the demons of lust tormented them. They would endure with the quintessential stiff upper lip, and that is how Lincoln intended to face the sometimes incessant call of nature...a call he'd felt several times over the past three days.

He liked the idea of marriage enough, he felt earthly temptations, and he _was_ taken with Lynn. Under other circumstances, he would give thought to pursing her, but given the state of things, doing so was impractical. Again, he resolved to forget her. Deep down, he knew that was unlikely to work, but he would give it his best try.

Momentarily, he and Wright returned to the boat deck, both of them resuming their prior affairs. When Lincoln took his leave, Boatswain Thomas had just gone below to search up a replacement motor for the crane. Now he was back and knelt beside the contraption, a battered red tool box open at his right hand and parts strewn about like the debris field of a shipwreck. "Have we got it?" Lincoln asked.

The older man rocked back on his knees and, pressing his lips tight together, gave a sad shake of the head. "No, sir. We've none in stock. We'll have to wait 'til Southampton."

Lincoln creased his brow in worry. "Can't we rig it some way? Just so it'll work if needed?"

"Not without a motor, sir."

Rubbish.

Sighing deeply, Lincoln put his hands on his hips and looked off toward the bridge. He detested the idea of bringing bad news to Captain Bartlett - an extra motor not being onboard couldn't be helped, but Lincoln still felt it a failure on his part, as though he were somehow responsible instead of fate.

"Right, then," he said, his mood souring. "Close her up."

Boatswain Thomas nodded. "Aye, sir." He shut the compartment door, locked it, and got to his feet. Lincoln left him to it and walked to the navigation bridge, stepping over a length of chain with a placard reading CREW ONLY hanging from it. Officer Mason stood on the bridge wing, his back to Lincoln and a pair of binoculars to his eyes; he carefully swept his gaze back and forth over the sea ahead. That morning, before leaving Naples, a message came across the wireless that a German U-Boat had been spotted in the area. Captain Bartlett increased the watch and ordered the boats uncovered and swung out so they could be loaded and lowered more quickly in the event something should happen. He decided against alerting the passengers for fear of causing a panic. Major Harrison and Sergeant-Major Rigby were made aware, but no one else.

In the bridge, Captain Bartlett stood by one of telegraphs, his hand resting absently on its top and his gaze, like Mason's, dead ahead, eyes squinted almost indiscernibly. Some of the crew called him "Iceberg Charlie" owing to his peculiar ability to smell bergs from miles away. Lincoln wondered if that knack extended to submarines as well...and would not have been surprised if it did.

Lincoln clasped his hands behind his back and stood up straighter, waiting for the old man to acknowledge him. When he didn't, Lincoln hazarded a soft, respectful, "Sir?"

For a moment, Bartlett continued his vigil, like a statue, then turned his head. "Mr. Loud," he said by way of greeting. He let his hand drop from the telegraph and faced Lincoln. The pilot of _Britannic_ was much shorter than Lincoln, but his masterful presence lent him a far larger air. "Has the davit been repaired?"

"No, sir," Lincoln said regretfully. Had he let his emotions show, his visage would have resembled that of a boy disappointing his father. "The motor was damaged and there is no replacement onboard. Boatswain Thomas checked the hold. We'll have to wait for Southampton."

Exhaling a blunted sigh, Bartlett nodded. "Very well. The others are functional?"

"Aye, sir."

"The boats are ready to launch in case?"

"Aye, sir."

Bartlett's scrutiny returned to the sea beyond the windows. Seamen bustled about on the bow securing riggings and such, and Lincoln glimpsed one of the lookouts climbing down the forward mast from the crows nest, perhaps to use the lavatory. "Alright, then. Relieve Mr. Mason at the watch."

"Aye, sir."

Lincoln dithered a tick to see whether the Captain would issue further instruction, then went back on deck. Mr. Mason stood at the wing wall, oscillating left and right. "Captain Bartlett's sent me to relieve you, sir," Lincoln said.

"Alright," Mason said and handed Lincoln the binoculars. "I haven't seen anything. I doubt you will either."

While Mason went off to do what Lincoln didn't know, Lincoln lifted the binoculars to his eyes and peered through, the world shrinking and rough, white-capped swell swimming into focus. The choppiness of the sea made detecting U-Boats a difficult proposition - the only way to spot one in this eventuality would be if you happened over a periscope jutting from the surface. Like a shark fin. Lincoln knew little about submarines, but the notion of being locked in a glorified tube below the ocean, where the chance for survival in the event of emergency was next to none, gave him the heebie jeebies. He was no coward and had long been prepared to die at sea, but he'd rather not do it trapped deep in the darkened bowels of a vessel, panicking as the water rose around him, as like a coffin.

A shudder raced down his spine.

He could stand drowning, but not like that.

Never like that.

* * *

Lynn stood in a queue before the counter in the dining hall, a segmented metal tray clutched in her hands and a tingle pricking across the back of her neck. The vast mess was nearly deserted save for a few patients and their attendant nurses, the majority of the space deserted and eerie, unnatural silence hanging over the proceedings like a shroud. Later, the staff would sup and life would briefly enter the room, but for now, the place put her in mind of a crypt.

When her turn came, she held the tray out to a man in white who filled it with food from a pan: Roast, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a buttered roll that looked stale to Lynn. She nodded her thanks, crossed the room, and went out into the hall, a long, utilitarian corridor that terminated in a set of stairs. Raised in Ireland and steeped in lore and Catholicism, she believed wholeheartedly in the existence of wraiths, specters, fairies, and demons, and the long, desolate passageways of _Britannic_ stirred disquietude in the pit of her stomach. She could not say how many men died onboard during its tenure as a hospital ship, but she did know that the number was many, and the nature of their deaths - violent, premature, and painful - was the stuff of which restless spirits were made.

She tossed a wary glance over her shoulder, but she was alone, the hall standing empty behind. At the steps, she hurried up, the bare floors turning carpeted at the top, and the bland white painted walls giving way to oak paneling that gleamed in the light. A nurse pushed a man in a wheelchair to the elevator flanking the stairwell, and an RAMC doctor rushed by with a clipboard in his hand.

Lynn ascended another stairway and emerged on B-Deck. She entered the ward off the promenade and carried the tray to Charles's bedside. Previously, the doctors had disallowed him solid food, but, after an afternoon examination, Doctor Prentiss, B-Deck's attending physician, declared him well enough to have it - a slit was made in his dressings over his mouth, and, presently, he sat up in bed, staring sightlessly at the facing wall, his bandaged hands resting impotently in his lap. Doctor Prentiss cleared him to get out of bed, walk, and go to the dining room, but the boy refused, saying his legs hurt. Lynn suspected that he simply didn't have the spirit.

He did not look at her as she sat the tray on the nightstand with a soft clink. "I've got your dinner," she said and nervously smoothed the front of her apron. "It's roast and mashed potatoes. The smell is making me hungry." She forced a laugh that was supposed to lighten the mood but sounded stilted to her own ears.

Charles surprised her by speaking, his voice a rattling whisper. "You can have it then."

Though he'd made noises under his bandages, Lynn was convinced, given his obvious mental trauma, that the power of speech was beyond him. She was knocked off balance but quickly recovered. "Oh, I'll have mine later,' she said. "Plenty to go around." She sat in a straight back chair, put the tray on her lap, and commenced cutting the roast into small, bite sized pieces.

"I don't want it," he said, his eyes never leaving the wall.

Lynn's hand faltered. "Why don't you?" she asked.

"I'm not hungry," he mumbled.

She doubted that. As far as she knew, he hadn't had a decent meal in weeks, all of his substance being liquid. "Nonsense," she said lightly and went back to cutting the beef.

"I don't want it," he said again.

"You have to eat," she encouraged, "build your strength up so you can get out of this blasted bed." She laid the fork down, the meat as small as she could get it, and picked up the roll, tearing it to manageable bits. "The weather's turning nice and it'd be a shame to stay cooped up in here." She leaned forward, lidded her eyes, and added, in a conspiratorial whisper, "there's also a swimming pool. I hear it's very therapeutic." She didn't know whether or not he would be able to make use of the bathing facilities due to the character of his injuries, but she was concerned more with enticing him out of his melancholia than anything else.

He hummed disinterestedly and turned his head to the side, away from Lynn and his dinner. She frowned and took a deep breath through her nose, her eyes traveling about his megar frame. What his build was before he boarded _Britannic_ , she did not know, but the man sitting before her now was a veritable bag of bones held together by thin, sallow flesh and force of habit. If he didn't take food, he'd waste away before they got back to England. She glanced down at the tray on her knees and then at Charles with a heavy sigh. "Could you please eat? Just a bit. I'd be happy if you did."

Charles did not reply for a long time, then he, too, sighed. "Fine," he said in a somber tone and turned his head. "Not much, though."

Lynn dug the tines of the fork into a shred of beef and leaned forward. "Not much," she confirmed, "just enough to keep you living."

He snorted as though he found the idea of living distasteful, and that single sound twisted like a knife in Lynn's heart. The urge to comment upon it, in hopes of getting him to open up about what happened to him and to work him through his emotions, came over her, but instead she lifted the fork to the slot in his bandage. He did not meet her eyes as he took the meat between his teeth, but she glimpsed shame, and imagined that his pride was wounded by having to be fed like a baby. "There we are," she said supportively. "It's good, isn't it?"

Chewing and swallowing, he replied: "It's dry."

"I'll make sure to get more gravy on this one," Lynn said and forked another piece. She swiped it through a glob of brown liquid, turning it over to evenly coat both sides, then shook it off a little. Holding her hand underneath to catch any excess, she brought it to his mouth, and he bent forward slightly to catch it with his teeth. "How's that?" she asked expectantly.

He chewed and seemed to think a moment. "Better," he said, and from his tone she surmised that his first instinct was to find another thing to complain about but changed course at the last moment to spare her.

"Would you like some potatoes?" she asked.

"Not particularly," he said.

Lynn scooped some onto the fork. "Where I come from," she said and stretched it out, "that means yes."

He took the fork into his mouth and swallowed. "And where might that be? I'd like to avoid it."

Lynn chuckled. "County Cork," she said and.

"Hm. My father was Irish."

"Oh? Where from?"

"Dublin," he replied.

Lynn stabbed another bit of roast with the fork. "I've never been there. I hear it's lovely."

"It isn't," Charles retorted.

Though she imagined he said that only because he was in a mood (or because he simply didn't like the city of Dublin), Lynn's chest twinged with hurt. The Irish had long been relegated to second class citizens in the British Empire, and the treatment leveled at them by the English was one of strained tolerance at best and outright loathing at worst. Nurse Forsythe was fond of saying _In America they have niggers, in England we have the Irish_ , an attitude that she was not alone in. Many thought the Irish lazy, drunkards, untrustworthy, or, more often than not, all three of those things. Before joining the RAMC, she had never been outside of Cork so had never experienced it for herself. Afterwards, she did, though she could not honestly claim it was a daily occurrence. Even so, being called awful names and likened to rubbish simply because she came from Ireland pained her, and was a sore subject, as it were.

"I'll take your word, then," she said, then, honestly, "I don't like cities very much. They're too crowded. All the people and buildings about. Always noisy and filled with smog. I prefer open space."

"I like neither," he said sourly. "I've had enough. Thank you for bringing it."

Lynn looked down at the tray. There was still a lot left. He ate a bit as promised, though. "No trouble at all," she said and got to her feet. "Would you like some water?"

"Yes, please" he said.

"Right. I'll fetch it now."

Leaving the tray on the table, she went off to get him water.

* * *

Long past sundown, Lincoln left the wheelhouse, removed his cap, and raked his fingers through his sweaty hair. Before dark, the clouds parted and the sun came out, the air rapidly heating. It was forty-seven degrees now, but the temperature peaked at sixty-two before dusk.

Wright stood at the wall along the bridge wing, hands resting on top and back bowed. Captain Bartlett ordered two men to each shift because of the threat. Wright passed most of the watch smoking and bothering Quartermaster Hutchens with jokes and talk of football. "I'll be back," Lincoln said curtly as he passed.

"Aye," Wright said without turning.

Returning his cap, Lincoln strolled down the deck, past the officers' quarters, and stepped through a doorway marked WIRELESS. Inside, a brief hall brought him to a counter beyond which a man in a white shirt, the cuffs rolled up his forearms, sat at the Marconi, a set of headphones over his ears and his finger incessantly tapping the lever, which, through the magic of modern technology, transmitted a signal in Morse Code to other wireless devices inside of a certain range. Lincoln did not understand how it worked nor did her overly care to - he was a sailor, not a wizard.

After the fresh breeze outside, the air was stuffy, and Lincoln began to perspire. Leaning against the counter's edge, he removed his hat and dropped it on. A second man, clad in black trousers, a long-sleeved white shirt, and thin black suspenders, emerged from a room, consulting a piece of paper with his head down. He started toward his comrade, saw Lincoln from the corner of his eye, and switched direction as smoothly as a schooner at sail. "Evening, Mr. Loud," Harold Phillips said with a cordial smile. A short, slight man with rust colored hair and open, amicable features, Harold was the senior of the the two wireless operators onboard, Jack Bride being the junior. From what little he knew of them, they were great friends, a strange alliance that never ceased to bemuse Lincoln. They were polar opposites, Bride being tall, lanky, and dour, his thin lips turned down in a perpetual frown that left him looking severe and unapproachable. He was polite enough, but not effusive like Philips. They reminded him of himself and Wright a bit, Lincoln wasn't quite as gloomy as Bride though.

Was he?

"Evening," Lincoln said briskly, "any new warnings?"

They'd received several messages from other ships in the area over the course of the afternoon in regards to the U-Boat. The RMS _Rockford,_ a passenger rig converted to a troop transport, dodged it northwest of Palermo. It was last spotted by the minesweeper HMS _Amethyst_ sailing in the direction of Tunis, away from _Britannic._ The possibility remained that there were others in the general vicinity, hence Captain Bartlett's continued caution.

Splaying his hands on the desk, Phillips shook his head. "No, sir. It's been quiet. If we're lucky, she struck a sandbar and went down with all Huns on deck." He laughed and slapped the wood. "Get it?"

Cracking a polite smile, Lincoln nodded. "Indeed." He wouldn't say aloud to a man fond of them, but he found puns to be the lowest form of humor. Wright was fond of them too; stuck inside during the storm, he endured an entire weekend of them. By the end of it, Lincoln's nerves were frayed and he nearly slugged the blimey bastard. "That's all? Nothing else of import?"

"Nothing, sir," Phillips confirmed.

"Alright, then," Lincoln said. He picked up his hat and situated it on his head. "See you tomorrow."

Outside, a cool gust of wind blew over him and dried the sweat on his forehead. He looked aft and forward, then started toward the bridge. Wright was where he'd left him, standing at the wing wall and staring off toward the horizon; now a cigarette smoldered between his lips, the thin, grayish smoke billowing over his shoulder in the tepid breeze. "No word over the wire," Lincoln said and stood next to him. Captain Bartlett ordered all unnecessary deck lights extinguished to make the ship harder to see, and the bow was a pit of darkness outlined only by the pallid illumination of the tropical moon.

"While you were off dallying," Wright said, "I saw a sea serpent, a ghost ship, and a school of mermaids with their floppy bits out. No U-Boats, though."

Lincoln snorted. "I doubt you saw any of those things."

"I most certainly did," Wright retorted with faux indignation. "The Flying Dutchman himself waved to me. Said he had a message for you."

Reaching into the hip pocket of his suit coat, Lincoln brought out his cigarette case and removed one, then his lighter. The moon reflected on the silvery surface, revealing his initials. "What was that?" he asked and lit his fag.

"He said he's got you a special place in Davy Jones Locker. Right next to the head."

Lincoln took a deep drag and blew it out. "Can't be much worse than bunking with you."

"Well," Wright said, and this time Lincoln couldn't tell if his indignation was real or in jest, "if that's how you feel, you can always switch spots with Mason. I'm sure _he'd_ appreciate me."

Officer Mason, being the first mate, roomed with Stone in the second to largest suite after Captain Bartlett's. Lincoln had never been inside, but Wright told him once that it was _the fastest place in all the ship_ , which, given the context in which it was said, Lincoln took to mean it was very nice, perhaps even unto the point of extravagance. Sharing a room with Stone, however, was not worth it. "I think I'll pass," he said and took a puff. "I think I can talk my way out of pummeling a common ragger like you, but probably not the chief officer."

Later, after they were replaced at the watch by officers Davis and Marlow, Lincoln sat on the edge of his bed and untied his shoes. It occurred to him that he hadn't thought of...well... _her_...since passing her on B-Deck before dinner. For that, he was proud of himself. Self-control was important to him, as it was a trait that men like Captain Bartlett exemplified, and was, thus, something he wished to master as well. He made the conscious decision to stop thinking of her and he followed through.

Why?

That question struck him like a crisp slap.

Why not think of her? Or even pursue her? There was really no reason not to. His work was not conductive to matrimony, he believed, as he spent long periods at sea, but other men had wives. And if that didn't work, well...would not love and companionship be worth leaving the ocean?

Cold horror dropped into his stomach at the prospect of abandoning his career. The sea was all he had ever known and all he'd desired since boyhood. He knew nothing else, _had_ nothing else. If he walked away, what would he do? Where would he go? He'd be lost, cast adrift. Was a woman really worth _that?_ Practically speaking, no. His pragmatism, however, was often challenged by dumb, nonsensical desires of the heart. It was unreasonable to leave a life and a career simply because, at times, he longed for the love, touch, and tender affection of a woman. To feel emotions and yearnings is not wrong nor is it abnormal, but letting them govern your choice making was one of the most foolish things you could possibly do.

Peeling his socks off, he drew a heavy sigh and rested his forearms on the tops of his thighs. He barely knew this women, yet she'd thrown him into something of a life crisis, and right now, he sensed that he was standing at a crossroads: One path lead into the unknown, and the other kept steady toward his one day piloting a ship of his own. Both of were appealing in their own ways. He pictured himself at the helm of a vessel much like _Britannic_ , the master of his domain, and it pleased him. Next, he envisioned himself married to a woman (Lynn playing the part since she was the one he'd been thinking of recently). That, too, pleased him.

For now, he resolved, he would let the matter lie and approach it later.

Some other day.

Undressed and in bed, lying in the gloom, he struggled to sleep, but did not for a very long time.


	4. Disaster Strikes

**Guest: I rarely take requests and even then only if it's an idea I really like. I have so much of my own stuff to do that it's kind of hard writing anything else.**

 **Guest: Ship...sinks...lol, I see what you did there.**

 **THXXX11138: I need to see that. I love history, but World War I is a conflict I'm really not all that familiar with. I can talk about WWII, factors leading up to it, what motivated men like Hitler and Mussolini, where they went wrong in their plans, etc, but I can't really do that with the first one. I need to study up on it more.**

 **Now comes the fun part.**

* * *

 _ **November 21, 1916**_

Lincoln swam up from the recesses of sleep like a body coming to the surface, his eyes fluttering open slowly and his brain sparking up with a creak of rusty machinery, cogs and wheels beginning to spin after a long, cold slumber. He blinked against the harsh overhead light and tried to retreat from consciousness, but the tang of cigarette smoke touched his nostrils and made him wince. He turned his head, the muscles in his neck grating together like ancient stone, and blinked until the watery blur drained from his vision. The wind-up clock on the bedside table proclaimed it 8:01.

He closed his eyes again, but the fog in his mind was rapidly lifting, which meant he was awake whether he wanted to be or not.

Across the room, Wright sat on the edge of the bed and tied his shoes, a cheroot dangling from his lips. Lincoln studied the man a moment, then sat up himself, his hand fluttering to his warm, achy temple.

 _Britannic_ was deep in the Mediterranean, steaming, the last Lincoln knew, through the Aegean Sea round the southeastern coast of Greece. The average temperature in the area was not that much different than in England, Lincoln was told, but the region had been experiencing a warm spell, with day time highs in the low to mid seventies and night lows in the sixties. Lincoln detested the cold, damp Novembers in Britain (known as the month when the people of England hang or drown themselves), but, though he spoke of his deep affinity for warmer climes, he could scarcely tolerate those either. The window between his and Wright's beds was open and the curtains stirred in the morning breeze, but the room simmered with skin blistering heat; a sheen of sweat coated Lincoln's body, and the his tangled bedclothes were sodden with humidity.

He rubbed the back of his neck and smacked his lips. He needed water. And a visit to the head. "Sorry if I woke you," Wright said, "I was trying for the old sneak off before she realizes you're going." He laughed and got to his feet.

"Is that a method you've used before?" Lincoln asked, his voice a dry, breaking croak. Wright claimed to be England's answer to Casanova but Lincoln suspected the closest he'd ever come to being with a woman was the time he accidentally bumped into Nurse Forsythe on B-Deck.

Adjusting his tie and peering at himself in the shave mirror over the basin, Wright said, matter-of-factly, "Oh, many times. I'm fleet as a phantom, you might say."

"That's why you woke me," Lincoln replied

Wright shrugged.

Lincoln didn't go on duty until ten, but since he was awake, he got up, crossed to the wardrobe, and took out his uniform. Light, cottony shirt, black trousers, and a light black coat. He laid it all on the bed and went to his sink; he turned it on, cupped his hands under the flow, and brought them to his lips, noisily slurping. Wright flashed a winning smile at his reflection, then pulled on his jacket. "Am I fair?" he asked cheekily. "I've a date, you know."

Yes, Lincoln knew. He and a nurse named Colleen Kennedy planned to walk the deck this morning before either of them went on shift. He spent all of yesterday prattling about it, and how he'd "have her in the supply closet by noon." Lincoln liked the man, but his cavalier attitude in regards to women irritated him. He assumed it was empty bluster, but regardless, Lincoln thought it grossly indecent. "You're as ugly as you've always been."

"Now, that's not the kind of thing you say to the man who's going to get you in with your beau. I have half a mind to make you sound like a monster."

In addition to his plans to seduce Colleen, Wright insisted on arranging for Lincoln and Lynn to meet. Lincoln told him to mind his own bloody business, but apparently that wasn't' taking, so the next course of action would be to toss him overboard. "Leave me out it," Lincoln grumbled. "I'm serious. If I wanted to meet with the woman, I'd do it on my own."

"You're a regular stick in the mud," Wright charged. "You'd have less lines on your face if you loosened up a bit. I'm older than you and you could pass for my father."

Lincoln was becoming annoyed. "I've other affairs," he snapped, "attend to yours and I'll attend to mine."

"Right then," Wright chuckled. "I'll leave you to it." He yanked his cap onto his head, looked Lincoln up and down, then departed, closing the door behind him.

Alone, Lincoln gazed into the looking glass, his expression austere and his brow knitted grimly. Bags hung below his muddled orbs and, indeed, lines radiated from the corners of his mouth and eyes. His skin, a light shade of pale beginning to brown from the pounding tropical sun, appeared rough, like the hide of a rhinoceros, and his lips formed a tight, severe slash across his face. He was annoyed because of Wright's ceaseless gaiety, annoyed because Stone had been at him since Sunday over the crane not being repaired (even though they didn't have the blasted part), and annoyed because in his quieter moments, his mind attempted to turn toward Lynn the nurse. Keeping it away took great effort, and that vexed him to no end. He'd see her on the deck, and his heart would skip a beat, and when she turned her big, light-fille brown eyes upon him, his breathing would sharply catch.

Most of all, he was annoyed at himself. As the previous days passed by, he'd come to the stark conclusion that he did want to pursue her, everything else be damned.

Undressing, he slipped into his underwear, then his pants and shirt, tucking the latter into the former and knotting his tie round his neck.

He knew not if he would allow himself to, but there could be no harm in trying. If they took to one another and the possibility of marriage presented itself, well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it, as they say.

Stopping, he soberly regarded his reflection.

That would all come later, maybe at the end of his shift, maybe even tomorrow. Right now, he'd take a walk, smoke, then eat breakfast before going on duty.

Shrugging into his jacket, he donned his cap and went out into the deserted hall. In the lavatory, he made use of the head, then went out onto the starboard boat deck, his hands slipping into his trouser pockets and his eyes instantly squinting against the harsh glare of the morning sun. He bowed his head, took the cigarette case from his pocket, and slid one out, then pinched it between his lips and lit the end.

Adjusted to the change in light, he looked up into the cloudless blue sky, then across the calm, azule sea. An arid brown land mass, no more than two or three miles off, defined the horizon, splotches of thirsty vegetation here and there. If _Britannic_ kept the same speed through the night that it held the previous day, they were navigating the Kea Channel between the isles of Kea and Makronisos en route to the base at Lemnos, where they would board thousands of wounded men for treatment and transport back to England.

Lincoln took a drag and looked aft, then forward. Wright leaned against the wing wall and chatted with Davis while Marlow scanned the open ocean with a pair of glasses. Lincoln moseyed to the railing, slapped his hands on, and stared at the passing coastline of Kea. Out there, mere miles away, were hundreds, maybe even thousands, of men who lived, worked, and thrived on the land. He wondered, not for the first time, if he could do as they did, his potentially taking a wife in the future notwithstanding. When ashore, no matter if it was in somber old England or somewhere more agreeable, he always felt the call of the sea after a while. They say that the salt gets into your blood, and though that was just an expression, he believed it without question. No drug or drink, not even the love of a good woman, was as strong as Neptune's lure - it was a siren song that no sailor, born or made, could resist. He could envision himself working as a bank clerk or even as a longshoreman, but he could _not_ picture himself being happy.

He thought of Lynn, of her fair skin, freckles, of the way the sun shone on her auburn hair and set it ablaze, of how one of her eyes was just misaligned enough to be noticable, something that he found "cute" as school children might say. He seriously tried to picture a future in which she was included, and while he could, it seemed...vague, indistinct, like a shimmering mirage or a fleeting shadow. He had abstract notions of _togetherness,_ both physical and otherwise, but he honestly didn't know what that entailed. How does a man act with his wife? What sorts of things do they do? Men and women have separate and often contrasting interests, how could they mesh?

Or did they? Perhaps they never do, perhaps a man and his wife are islands unto themselves, passing like ships in the night and coming together only to breed new life, or when the call of nature comes upon one.

If that was the case, what was the point? If he was going to dedicate his life to someone, she would be not only a "wife" and a mother, but also his friend, someone he could get on with. For some reason, his mind went to Wright. He got on well with him but that damn jovial nature of his! Maybe he'd feel differently if it came from a beautiful woman he was already inclined to feel tender toward, but he doubted.

Sighing, he pushed away from the rail and glanced up at the towering forward funnel, thick black smoke belching from it and pouring into the heavens like a cloud of ash from a smited city. Each of the stacks had a ladder along the side to provide access to the top; on Sunday he had to climb the second to inspect a spot of rust. He was no coward, but he did not relish being so high up - he made the mistake of looking down and nearly fainted from the sheer, dizzying vertigo. By the time he made it back down again, he was shaky and weak. If going up was ever required again, he'd beg off and make Wright do it.

He took another puff of his cigarette and started aft at a stroll; a group of nurses disappeared into a gangway leading to the first class stairwell, and he watched intently, trying to see whether or not Lynn was among their number. She was not, which was just as well. How long had it been since he happened across her? Two days? The last he could recall was when Nurse Forsythe grabbed him from the deck to carry a box full of cotton swabs from the supply room to the B-Deck ward. When he entered the latter, straining and sweating because the damn thing was _that_ heavy, Lynn was bent over the bed of a man with one leg and reading a thermometer. She spared him a nonchalant glance as he passed, then, realizing who it was, tensed ever so slightly, or so Lincoln reconkned. She turned hurriedly away and stared conspicuously at her feet, frozen and unmoving. Lincoln sat the box where the old woman indicated, then lingered for a moment, torn. Should he approach? Speak? Anything at all? He decided against engagement and left in a casual manner that felt to him like fleeing.

At this point, he was at the entrance to gym, which currently served as Major Harrison's offices.

Without warning, an earth shattering _kaboom_ filled the day, and, a split second later, a great and terrible shudder ran through the ship, as though the very world itself was tearing apart. Lincoln was thrown roughly to the deck, his cigarette flying from his mouth and rolling across the planks, leaving a trail of ash in its wake. His heart blasted into his throat and his stomach wrang violently, like a sopping rag over a celestial sink. He tossed a harangued look over his shoulder, from whence the roar came, and his jaw fell slack at the sight his widening eyes beheld: Dense, coal-colored smoke belched from alongside _Britannic's_ starboard hull in a wide, rising mushroom. Water disturbed by the blast fell to the deck like rain, and in an instant, Lincoln was on his feet and rushing heedlessly to the side. Wright and Mason, both hitherto crouching below the wing wall, shoved away and followed suit. Captain Bartlett and Officer Stone emerged from the wheelhouse, paled when they saw the cloud, and ran over.

The smoke rapidly dissipated, shrinking to a darkish haze. Lincoln reached the railing at the same time as Wright and peered over the side. From his angle, he could not see a hole, but he _could_ see water being sucked into the ship; it swirled, eddied, and sloshed as it was drawn in as if by a thirsty maw. His stomach sank and his hands curled round the rail so tight his knuckles turned a deep, bloodless shade of white.

"Fuckin' hell!" Wright shouted. He held his cap to his head as though he feared it being blown away.

The point of impact was just back from the forebridge, between about, Lincoln judged, holds two and three. He jerked his gaze up toward Kea and scanned the ocean for evidence of a U-Boat, deaf to the excited chattering around him, but didn't see any. If a goddamn German was dastardly enough to target an obvious hospital ship, they'd be dastardly enough to hit it again, then move in and machine gun the survivors.

"Dear God," Captain Bartlett muttered, horror evident in his voice. Like a pair of shots from a starting gun, he and Stone dashed back to the bridge, Mason scrambling behind, his feet slipping on the slickened deck.

Lincoln stared down at the seawater surging into the hull, and a tight ball of foreboding knotted in the center of his stomach. "Bloody fuckin' Christ, we're hit, we're fuckin' hit," Mason chanted, face haggard and sallow, eyes pooled with simmering shock. Lincoln's heart slammed furiously and for a moment, he was rooted in place, then, coming alive, he pushed away from the rail and hastened to the wheelhouse. Stone slammed one of the telegraph levers back then forward with a _ding_ , ordering the engines stopped, and Mason stood before a switchboard upon which was a rudimentary rendering of the keel broken into segments. "Close the doors," Captain Bartlett ordered, and Mason flipped a switch. Tiny lights over each segment winked on one-by-one, indicating that the watertight doors deep in the ship's bowels had closed.

Save for the ones in boiler rooms five and six.

"Five and six aren't closing, sir," Mason said, a hunt of alarm in his voice.

Captain Bartlett whipped around and stalked over, his shoulders hunched defensively. He scanned the board and cussed. Just then, a telephone fastened to the wall rang with a call from the Chief Engineer, and Captain Bartlett snatched it up. "What's the situation? Why aren't five and six shutting?" he asked coolly. Lincoln watched the old man's face for signs of what he was hearing, but his steely countenance remained inscrutable as he listened. "Assess the damage," Captain Bartlett ordered, "then report to the bridge. Be quick about it."

He hung up and sighed. Only then did Lincoln realize that everyone in the wheelhouse - Mason, Stone, Davis, Wright, himself, and Quartermaster McBride - were all staring expectantly at the skipper, they faces tight with anxiety and a dark, palpable tension in the air. He looked from one man to the next, his craggy face, cast in the shadow of his cap bill, like that of a dead man. "Now we wait."

* * *

Like Lincoln, Lynn had trouble sleeping that night because of the heat. She opened the stateroom window, but lying in bed, she could not feel the breeze. First she kicked the blanket to her feet and stayed beneath the sheet. When that became too much, she pushed it down as well and went uncovered. Her thin nightgown clung to her tacky body, and sweat stood out on her forehead in fat droplets. She brought up every memory of cool Irish Novembers she could muster, but those served only to make things worse.

Sometime past two, she dropped into a thin, fitful slumber, but woke several times before dawn to the untenable sensation of being roasted alive. At one point, she adjourned to the bridge and smoked a cigarette, the cool feeling of the headwind slipping through her hair the greatest bliss she had ever known. From a conversation with the captain, she knew that _Britannic's_ maximum speed was twenty-two knots, which produced a refreshing breeze even on the driest of days.

As she leaned against the railing and stared at the moon-dappled sea, she let her mind wander. In keeping with its recent custom, it eventually turned to Lincoln. He'd been a rare sight lately, like a phantom haunting the halls of a country home that appears only under the right conditions. She glimpsed him that day walking aft with Officer Mason, but he didn't see her and she didn't make her presence known. All things disregarded, she decided that she keenly fancied him and wished with sharp longing that he would make a try at her. Since chatting with him on the deck that night, he'd been rather aloof, and she had no choice but to believe that he did not feel as she did.

Of course, why would he? She was, to put it plainly, a desperate, unmarried woman who pined for romance and manufactured it where none existed. He showed her a bit of routine civility and she mistook it for something more.

She did not need more reasons to feel down on herself, but now she had one, and it forced her to confront the worst aspect of her personality: The aforementioned desperation. Standing there on _Britannic's_ boat deck under the watchful keep of the Aegean moon, she admitted to herself that she wanted love and intimacy above anything else. Did other women feel the same? Did they think of such things day in and day out? She suspected that, perhaps, to a degree they did, but not as strongly as she. She could make a pretense of standards, but if a man showed interest, she'd most likely forsake everything in acceptance of his affections, be he handsome, ugly, fat, thin, Irish, English, or even American. At least she feared she would, as that, to her, was the epitome of wretchedness.

Flicking the butt of her cigarette into the water, she determined that she would go on as she had been, ignoring the insistent pleas of her heart and body. She would turn men away wholesale to eliminate the risk of her acting rashly. She would overcome her taxing preoccupation and _live._

Presently, at 7:50 by the clock at the head of the first class stairway, she hurried up one arm of the Y-shaped junction, her hand trailing lightly along the smooth, oaken banister. She'd been on duty since shortly after six, opening portholes in below deck wards. _It's hot and stale down there, open 'em up and let them air,_ Nurse Forsythe ordered. Major Harrison issued instructions that all windows below B-Deck remain closed at all times, but, unbeknownst to him, she was in charge, not him.

At the top of the stairs, Lynn followed a tiled corridor to the ward, where most of the twelve men in residence were awake and waiting to be taken to the dining hall. Colleen and a fleet of other nurses helped some out of bed and others into wheelchairs. Lynn crossed to where Charles sat, hands ever in his lap, and stood over him. "Breakfast is being served," she said, "would you like to come to the mess?"

Over the past several days, he'd made great strides toward regaining his spirits. Saturday, she convinced him to walk the promenade with her for a bit, and though his knees were shaky from underuse, he did splendidly, which pleased her to to no end. To be sure, he complained the entire ten minutes they were abroad, but small steps lead to giant leaps, as the saying went. Sunday, she talked him into attending the church service on D-Deck. _I don't believe in God,_ he said coldly when she broached the subject.

 _Why ever not?_ she asked, surprised.

Gaze steady away from her, he said _Once you've seen what I have, the notion of a loving God stops making sense._

 _Well...I'd still like you to go. It's a chance to get out of bed and be about. Doesn't that sound nice?_

 _No, it doesn't._

He went anyway, to humor her, she imagined, but she charted it as a victory nevertheless.

Now, he drew a deep sigh. "No, I would not. I'll take breakfast here."

Lynn's shoulders slumped in defeat and she hung her head. She tried to be unendingly patient with him, but sometimes he tried her. Lynn had taken a liking to all of her charges and wished to see them excel in their recovery. When one stalled, it hurt and depressed her. "You really should come down," she said, a beseeching edge in her voice. "It'll be good for you."

He did not reply.

"Please?"

Charles took a deep breath. "Miss O'Rourke, you annoy me sometimes."

That struck her as oddly funny, perhaps because she knew it to be true. "You annoy me too sometimes, Mr. Charles," she said fondly, "now will you come to the mess?"

"Fine," he said.

Smiling ear-to-ear, Lynn went off, fetched a wheelchair, and rolled it over, swerving around Colleen and a man with a bandage wrapped around his forehead. She parked it next to the bed, locked the wheels, and pulled the covers off of Charles's lap. Like the other patients, he wore a white gown that reached his knobby knees. "Do you need my help getting up or do you think you can do it yourself?" she asked.

"I can do it on my own," he said. Moving stiffly, he shifted round and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He braced his arms on either side of him and slowly, ponderously, lifted up, then turned and dropped into the chair. Lynn bent, unlocked one wheel, then the other.

Done, she grabbed the handholds and turned the chair. "There we go," she said, "on our way to breakfast. I don't know what they have but it smells good."

"I doubt that," Charles groused as she pushed him into the hall, "the fare here is as bad as it is in the army."

"It's better than no fare at all," Lynn pointed out.

Charles sniffed. "Just barely."

"Well," Lynn said, "heal up and you can go home where the food is better. The quicker you improve, the quicker they'll let you go."

He didn't respond to that.

At the elevator, Lynn pushed the button and waited. Nurses, RAMC men, doctors, and crewmen walked about in different directions, some silent and others talking to each other. When the doors opened, she backed the wheelchair in and pressed another button. The door slid closed and they were alone in silence. "I don't like these things," she said to break the pall, "I worry they'll break and drop. It happens, you know."

"With any luck, the bottom is close to the morgue. Less of a trip."

A gasp was shocked from Lynn's throat. "That's an _awful_ thing to say."

"Right," Charles allowed. "We'd most likely live and be paralyzed. We can keep each other company in the ward."

"You're so morbid," Lynn charged. "Would it hurt to be a little more positive?"

"No," he admitted, uncharacteristic passion creeping into his voice, "but it's hard to be positive when you've been turned into a monster."

His words stuck in Lynn's heart like the blade of a knife. "You're not a monster," she said quickly, "you're a perfectly nice man -"

"Whose face resembles that of a monster," he interjected. "I count myself lucky to still have my limbs, but that's as far as I go."

The doors opened but Lynn made no move to exit. "You don't really think that, do you?" she asked softly, the corners of her lips turning down in a frown. She'd changed his dressings a dozen times during the trip and his face was handsome enough despite the blistered, red splotches, and pock marks. She assumed that he must be touchy about it, but to call himself a monster, it must affect him more than she thought.

"I do," he said pointedly, "and I won't hear empty platitudes to the contrary." His tone was one of firm closure, and Lynn, though she wanted to, did not argue. She simply sighed and wheeled him into the mess hall, a wide space filled with long tables pushed together. _Britannic_ currently resided fifty-four injured men, thirty or so of which were seated, some with food and others waiting. Nurses made the rounds like angels in white among the denizens of hell, and a group of RAMC officers stood against one wall, observing.

Lynn guided the chair to the head of an empty table and locked the wheels. "I'll go get us something to eat," she said as cheerily as she could, which wasn't very.

"Right," Charles replied indifferently.

She hesitated a moment, then crossed the room to the serving station, where she waited in line. When her turn came, she selected two plates and held them out to a steward, who filled them both with beans, sausage, eggs, fried tomatoes and mushrooms, and bacon. She nodded her thanks and carried them back to the table; Charles stared at the ornate clock upon the wall.

It was 8:09 am.

"Here," she said and sat his plate in front of him, then hers in the spot to his left. "I'll get cutlery and tea, how does that sound?"

"Lovely," he said dryly.

She crossed the dining room again, got two forks and two cups of piping hot tea, and brought them back to the table, setting them down then sitting, pausing to smooth the creases from her apron. "A full English," she said and nodded to her plate. "Doesn't get much better than that, does it?"

"If it were prepared better."

Lynn scooted her chair in until the edge of the table bit into her chest, just below her meager breasts, and picked up his fork. "Maybe it's better than it has been," she said. She cut off a piece of sausage and was just beginning to stab it when the entire ship lurched violently to port with a mighty, concussive clap. The world heaved and, crying out, Lynn was knocked out of her chair; screams of terror and smashing glass as cups and plates shattered against the floor rose up. Heart thundering sickly, she rolled to her stomach and covered the back of her head on instinct alone. A bone rattling vibration shuddered through the mess hall, and something landed in the small of Lynn's back, knocking a howl of terror from her lips; in that moment, she was crazily certain that a bomb had fallen and in mere seconds, it would detonate, sending hot metal shrapnel slicing through her body. She squeezed her eyes closed and curled up as best she could to make a smaller target of herself.

As suddenly as it began, it was over, the ship steady again. Lynn didn't dare move for a moment, then got warily to her knees. Tables had been shoved askance and the great chandelier overhead swayed ominously back and forth like a hangman's noose. Groans and excited yelling seasoned the air, and people pushed tentatively to their feet, having been knocked over as well.

What happened?

Looking around as if an answer would present itself, she spotted Charles huddled on the floor across from her, head down and behind up, his arms over the back of his head. Panic clutched Lynn's chest, and she crawled over, only then realizing that she was trembling in fright. "Are you okay?" she asked worriedly.

Charles trembled too, the poor thing probably back at the Somme. She laid a comforting hand on his back. "It's alright," she quavered, her voice uneven and tight with dread. "Are you hurt?"

Slowly, he lifted his head, and through the holes in his bandages, his eyes swirled with abject horror. "W-What's happening?"

Lynn started to say she didn't know (but probably nothing serious, please don't panic), but someone sang out. "Everyone remain calm! Follow emergency protocol and proceed to the upper decks at once!"

Getting unsteadily to her feet, Lynn helped Charles back into his chair and unlocked the wheels with tremoring hands. "What's happening?" he demanded.

Ignoring him, she wheeled the chair toward the exit, falling in behind a queue of people streaming into the corridors, all haggard and white-faced with worry. As she pushed down the hall, maddened by the slow procession ahead of her, she fought to regain her composure. Something awful happened, and right now was no time to go to pieces. Her patients needed her, Charles needed her, and for him and them, she would buck up.

Plus, everything might be okay. _Britannic_ was as big and safe ships come.

The elevators were in use, and after a moment's wait, Charles pushed roughly to his feet. "Nevermind the goddamn thing," he said, "I'll walk." He took off in the direction of the stairs with surprising vim and vigor, and Lynn gaped after him a moment, stunned by the ease and fluidity of his movements. People crowded around, bumping into her, and, after an indecisive moment, she abandoned the wheelchair and fought her way through, glimpsing Charles just as he disappeared up the stairwell.

"Wait!" she cried, but he didn't stop, didn't even slow.

Blasted, headstrong English bastard.

A nurse brushed rudely past her, followed by three RAMC men, and inhaling sharply through her nose in frustration, Lynn gave chase, finally catching up to Charles on the stairwell leading to B-Deck. She started to snap at him, but stopped herself. Snapping was a sign of panic, and if she gave into the urge, she was certain she would devolve into a fearful mess. "You're a lot faster than you look," she panted and pounded up the steps behind him.

He did not reply.

"We're to go back to the ward and wait for orders," she said. They were in a wide, carpeted lobby now, the walls and support pillars smooth English oak and the lighting a mix of ambient and natural, as sunshine streamed through a skylight overhead.

"I want to have a look around," Charles said. There was a steely resoluteness in his voice that hadn't been there before. Attending to him these many days, she could hardly imagine him a soldier, what with his dressings and emaciated frame, but now, in a flash, she could.

He ducked up another stairwell leading to the boat deck, and Lynn quickened her step to match his stride. "We shouldn't be doing that," she cautioned, "Major Harrison -"

"Major Harrison can kiss my ass," he said, and Lynn's cheeks blushed furiously at his coarse language. He pushed through a door and emerged on deck before she could protest further.

She'd say it again: Blasted, headstrong English bastard.

* * *

Nine men stood mournfully around a table in the chart room aft of the wheelhouse, a blueprint of _Britannic_ laid out before them like a corpse awaiting burial. Chief Engineer Frank Symon, a short, powerfully built man who was no taller than Captain Bartlett but more far more solid, tapped one large, calloused finger against the page, indicating the point of impact. "This is where it happened," he said, "between holds two and three. Compartments one, two, and three are beyond help and the bulkhead between hold one and the forepeak was knocked completely out. The fireman's tunnel to boiler room six was bent all to hell and water's getting in through there, too. The doors between five and six won't shut so water is flowing _back_ from six into five."

Captain Bartlett listened intently and nodded severely. "We can stay afloat then."

 _Britannic_ would remain on the surface with any six of her compartments flooded - at the moment, they were at their limit but not beyond it. Still, Lincoln noticed a slight list to starboard that had been growing by degrees over the past ten minutes.

"No," Symon said, and Lincoln's heart jogged. In an instant, the atmosphere darkened. "Those damn fool nurses opened the portholes along the lower decks," Symon continued. "The widespread nature of the flooding dragged us down immediately, and the waterline reached those windows in minutes; seawater's spilling in and filling the forward parts of F, E, and D decks. At this rate, I give her an hour and a half at the outside."

The gravity of his words weighed heavy in the air like gathering storm clouds. Across the table from Lincoln, Wright's face drained of color, and Mason nervously chewed the inside of his bottom lip. Captain Bartlett stared dazedly down at the chart for a moment, like a man staggered by a hard hit to the temple, then recovered and snapped his head up, his face hardening like, Lincoln imagined, his resolve. "Uncover the boats and ready them for launch," he commanded, his voice firm and even, "Mr. Loud, take our concordance to the wireless hut and have them send a distress signal."

Lincoln nodded and started to leave, but stopped when Stone spoke. "Let's not act rashly, sir," he said. He stood at the corner of the table, between Captain Bartlett and Officer Davis, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes narrowed. Perhaps it was Lincoln's already instilled dislike of the man, but he reminded him of a witch presiding over a black mass, plotting woe and the seduction of the innocent.

"We're going down, Mr Stone," Captain Bartlett said, a hard edge in his voice. "How should we act?"

Stone, ignoring the castigation in the old man's tone, elaborated. "There are over fifty wounded men onboard, some of them bedridden, others missing limbs, and others still barely able to move. A complete evacuation is a precarious proposition." He turned and looked over his shoulder at the window. Beyond lie the crystal, sun drenched sea. Beyond even that was Kea. "Kea is just under three miles off," he said and turned back to the gathering. "If we turn and make for it, we can run aground."

"Rubbish," Lincoln blurted, and Stone whipped him a dangerous look. Captain Bartlett looked between them, and Symon stared intently out the window at the distant island as if judging whether or not it would work.

It would not.

"If we try, the forward motion will push even more water in. We'll be sunk in twenty minutes."

A black shadow flickered across Stone's hard features and his fingers dug into the table like the claws of some vicious beast. "It's our best chance. This is not a normal evacuation, we are charged with the lives and safety of nearly sixty injured men, and putting them off in the boats is a fine way to kill them. If we turn and steam toward Kea, we're sure to hit shallow water in a mile, maybe less."

Lincoln opened his mouth to argue, but cut off when Captain Bartlett turned to Symon. "Can we do it?" he asked.

The Chief Engineer looked away from the window and hung his head in thought. "Maybe," he said. "The boy's right, we'll drive more water in, but she might stabilize enough to make it."

Captain Bartlett considered for a moment before nodding, much to Lincoln's shock. "Right. We'll start the engines up and make a try. I want the boats uncovered and the swung out in case. Mr. Loud, see to it that the wireless men put out a call then report to your station. Mr. Mason -"

A sharp knock came at the door leading to the boat deck, and Quartermaster McBride stuck his head in. "Sir, Major Harrison wishes to see you. He says it's urgent."

"Send him in."

McBride disappeared, and a split second later, Major Harrison, clad in a brown uniform with a belt across the chest, came in. "What was that explosion?" he ejaculated.

Captain Bartlett sighed. "A mine, I think."

Major Harrison blinked in surprise. "Is the damage serious?"

"We're sinking," Captain Bartlett said without preamble, and the Major paled. "Have your people assemble on the boat deck...with their lifebelts."

Nodding curtly, Major Harrison rushed off, and Captain Bartlett followed, everyone else falling line behind him. "Mr. Stone, order the engines started again."

"Aye, sir."

"Mr. Loud, the wireless." Addressing everyone, he said, "Once the boats are ready, await my order."

By now it was clear to Lincoln that the old man's mind was made up: He was going to try and beach _Britannic,_ and nothing a junior officer said could dissuade him. On deck now, in the bright morning sunshine, Lincoln looked off toward the landmass defining the horizon. Maybe they _were_ close enough to make it - both the Captain and Engineer Symon thought they were, and if men such as they had faith in the operation, Lincoln had no choice but to have faith in them.

People had begun coming out on deck like hesitant refuges after an aerial bombing run, and Lincoln spotted Major Harrison talking to a group of nurses in front of the first class entrance. They hurried back into the ship and the Major came after.

In the navigation bridge, Lincoln collected the concordance from the binnacle and jotted it down onto a scrap of paper. As he worked, Stone pulled one of the telegraph levers with a series of dings, and, in the wheelhouse, Quartermaster McBride, under the watchful eye of Captain Bartlett, turned the wheel hard to port, spinning it round and round until it reached its limit and stopped. A grinding vibration raced through the ship, and the deck quivered beneath Lincoln's feet. He glanced up, and through the window, Captain Bartlett spoke into the phone.

Something was the matter, but Lincoln ignored it and brushed past Stone - he had his orders and he intended to carry them out.

Mason, Wright, and several sailors worked to uncover the forward most boat aft of the starboard navigation box. Mason whipped the canvas covering off, rolled it up, and dropped it to the deck. Black smoke rushed from the forward funnel with a whistle, and the stench of grease and oil seasoned the air. Farther aft, a few RAMC men appeared from a gangway, bulky white lifebelts covering their chests.

At the door to the wireless room, Harold Phillips stood in a posture of restlessness, looking worriedly aft and forward. When he saw Lincoln, he started. "What's happening?" he asked.

"We're going down," Lincoln said and handed him the paper. He gaped in horror, then snatched it and gave it a harried once over. "Send a CQD."

Nodding, Philips rushed back into the wireless room.

Next, Lincoln went to the closest boat and, by himself, uncovered it and drew the tarp aside, flinging it casually into the sea. The shuddering increased, and the ropes lashing the craft to the davits shook. Lincoln glanced toward the bridge and frowned. The grinding was louder now - sounded like the whole bloody ship was going to explode into a million pieces.

By now, _Britannic_ had taken a sharp slant forward, and the list to starboard was heavier. Lincoln's stomach knotted with dread, and he worked faster. The ship was moving, and as he predicted, the forward drive was sinking them faster.

* * *

Lynn opened a door off the B-Deck ward, reached in, and grabbed a lifebelt from the pile on the floor. She held it out and someone took it, then she went back for another. The din of many people talking excitedly at once reverberated off the walls and filled the space like the roar of the sea. An alarm bell rang unrelentingly, the high, clamorous sound piercing her ears and heightening her panic.

Grabbing another belt, she turned and shoved it into Colleen Kennedy's hands. Up and down ranks of beds, nurses helped men into lifebelts while RAMC officers escorted the more injured ones out and to the boat deck. Nurse Forsythe stood by the door to the corridor, her arms crossed sternly over her chest. She looked afraid, and seeing that even the great and terrible bitch of the _Britannic_ was worried pushed Lynn to the edge of terror.

She took another jacket and gave it to Nurse Jessop, who spun and brought it to a man with one leg, helping him in and tightening the straps about his chest. Seeing that no one else was in line, she took one more and hurried over to Charles' bed, where he sat ramrod straight with his hands in his lap. Shouts and yells echoed up and down the hall, and bodies hurtled past the door on their way topside. "Step lively!" Nurse Forsythe called and hugged herself tighter.

"We have to hurry," Lynn said, her voice breaking. Charles allowed her to slip the belt over his head; she fumbled with the straps because her hands were shaking, and with a frustrated sound, she knelt before him, moving very carefully so as to complete the task at hand.

Her fear was not for herself, but rather for the men. The ship was rapidly foundering - the cant forward and the tilt to starboard were increasing all the time - and unless they moved quickly, they might be caught below when it went. She could not say how long _Britannic_ had - as far as she knew, it could roll onto its side and sink at any moment. She was a strong enough swimmer that she was not concerned with going into the water, but the majority of her charges were not strong enough to save themselves if need be - the poor souls would be lost the moment they touched the water. It was imperative, then, that she do her best to make sure they all made it to the boats.

Done with Charles's belt, she got to her feet. Nurses and patients streamed out of the ward and into the hall, some going to the left and onto the promenade, more turning right toward the grand staircase. "Can you walk?" she asked.

"Yes," Charles replied. He got to his feet and went ahead of her at her behest. Beneath, the floor angled forward like the gentle swell of a hillside. Nurse Forsythe waved her on, then fell in behind.

Charles went right, moving slowly as the corridor ahead was jammed with fleeing souls slowly making their way to the stairway. At the end, the hall opened up on a large space surrounding the foot of the staircase. Men rushed about going aft, forward, and down; the scene was one of controlled chaos, and a balloon of fear expanded in the pit of Lynn's stomach.

The procession made its way up the steps, three across. At the top, Charles went right, and shortly, they emerged on the port boat deck, which was thronged with people all milling about. Perhaps it was the fresh air, sunshine, and freedom of movement, but the air lightened, and the building dread melted away some.

Seamen worked to free one of the boats under the observation of Officer Mason. Lynn looked forward - the deck sloped noticeably down, yet the ship still seemed to move, smoke from the boilers billowing from the funnels.

Presently, two sailors operated the pulley davits and brought the boat even with the deck. A hush fell over the crowd, and Officer Mason turned. "I've orders to fill but not launch. I want the worst wounded forward followed by the women."

Someone bumped into Lynn, and she turned to see Colleen next to her. "Have we gotten everyone out?" Lynn asked.

"From B-Deck," Colleen said.

That was little comfort, as there were wards on C, D, and E. Given the amount of flooding, she was horribly certain that there must be people trapped below. She imagined men being swallowed by the rising water and a shudder went through her.

At the front of the multitude, Officer Mason and an RAMC captain helped a man with his arm in a sling into the boat, Mason with one foot on the deck and the other perched precariously on the edge of the skiff. He beckoned a nurse forward, and she came reluctantly, her head down and her fingers worrying her apron, putting Lynn in mind of a woman praying the rosary. Mason took her hand to steady her, and she stepped down into the boat, which rocked back and forth. Down the deck, Officer Davis and a group of seamen brought two more boats flush with the edge.

Call her foolhardy, but there was no way on earth she'd be able to get into a boat while men might be in need of help. She joined the RAMC to get away from home and prove to her father that she wasn't a useless girl, but she'd come to care deeply about the boys under her care. In a way, each was a surrogate for the husband she couldn't have. She poured out her love and affection on them and felt strongly for each, not in the same way she might for an actual husband, but keenly nevertheless. Were her own man in peril, she would not leave him behind like the women on _Titanic_ left theirs. She would rescue him or, failing that, die by his side.

She would not leave _Britannic_ until she was sure she'd done everything she could to save the patients, even if that meant going down with it.

In an instant, she made her decision. Breaking from the mob, she ducked through the door she'd just come through and started down the stairs, passing a group of men on their way up. "Are there other patients below?" she asked.

"A few on D and E," one of the men said.

"Thank you," she said and hurried off before they could question her. At the bottom of the steps, she rounded the banister and went down another flight: The stairway extended all the way down to F-Deck in something of a spiral. On C-Deck, it suddenly occurred to her that she needed to visit her cabin - she had twenty pounds in her nightstand drawer, and if she lived, she'd rather like to have it on hand.

Instead of continuing down the stairs, she went to her stateroom, passing no one on the way. Ahead, a door on the port side of the hall swung slowly open and she expected someone to come out, but they didn't, and a twinge of superstitious apprehension pinched her chest. Then another did likewise, and a third. She realized it was the list and felt a rush of relief.

At her room, she produced the key from her apron, unlocked the door, and went in. She crossed to the bedside table, pulled open the drawer, and picked up the stack of bills. She shoved them into her apron then left again, not sparing a second thought for anything else.

Back on the stairs, she made it another flight before a strange, muted roar found her ears and stopped her in her tracks. She furrowed her brows and tried to discern its character, but couldn't. It sounded as though it were coming from below.

Laying her hands on the smooth oak railing, she peered over the side and down several decks. At the bottom, wreckage-dotted sea water flowed in a white torrent from forward. Her heart clutched and her grip on the rail tightened. She counted silently to herself - that was F-Deck.

Someone touched her shoulder and she jumped, a tiny cry of alarm ripping from her throat. She turned to find a man in an white uniform standing behind her, his face drawn. "What are you doing down here, miss?" he asked.

Lynn swallowed and fought to catch her breath. "I-I came to see if all the patients had been evacuated. Are there anymore?"

He seemed to think for a moment, his eyes flickering up and down, taking her in from head to toe. "A few," he allowed. "This way."

He started up the stairs, and Lynn followed.


	5. Rising Tide

**Anonymous789: Part of it does take place on land.**

* * *

 _ **November 21, 1916**_

Lincoln stood at the aft end of the deck overlooking the stern, his hand curled around the thick rope holding the boat to the davit. A large crowd of people shoved up before him, starting at the stairs down to the stern and continuing to amidships, three deep in spots, a mix of doctors, nurses, and patients, most of them looking anxious but behaving themselves. Fresh in Lincoln's mind was _Lusitania,_ which went down off of Ireland after being torpedoed: She sank in fifteen minutes, and from newspaper reports, mass pandemonium broke out. On _Britannic,_ an uneasy calm held sway - the only noise being the muffled ringing of alarm bells from inside and the sound of the propellers. Turning to his left, Lincoln held fast to the rope and leaned over the side, looking aft. The blades, their tips just visible above the surface of the water, spun round and round, chopping angrily at the sea and kicking up foam. The red hull line, where the ocean normally rested, sat a good six feet up, sloping down with the angle of the ship. Turning right, he looked down the deck, the list steeper than it had been.

Sighing, he looked back at the milling crush, then at the seamen awaiting his orders. Two davits down, Wright inspected his boat with his hands on his hips, As Lincoln watched, a sailor broke from the pack, approached Wright, and said something to him. He came to Lincoln next. "Captain says fill the boats but don't put 'em off 'til he gives the word."

"Is he still trying to beach the bloody thing?" Lincoln asked sourly. He'd been standing here for nearly ten minutes watching the bow get lower and lower in the water, and the Isle of Kea getting seemingly no closer. As he told Bartlett and the others, water was being driven into the hole and filling the ship far more quickly than it would otherwise. Symon said she might even out, well that bloody wasn't happening.

Nodding, the seaman said, "Aye, sir."

Rolling his eyes in frustration, Lincoln waved him away. There were a good three hundred people on the starboard side waiting for passage, and if this blasted madness kept up, they'd drown the whole lot of them. He had endless respect for the master of _Britannic,_ but that did not mean he thought he was infallible. A man like Bartlett rarely makes mistakes, not _never_.

Lincoln turned to the assembly. He saw a few men in hospital gowns interspersed here and there, but most of those present were aid nurses in padded lifebelts. "Alright, step forward," he said and beckoned. "Women and wounded first. No rush. Plenty of boats for everyone."

The first to come was a young girl in a blue dress and white apron, her sandy blonde hair tucked under a white cap with a red cross on the front. Lincoln reached out, took her hand, and helped her in, the boat rocking slightly. Next came a man with a bandage wrapped around his head and another nurse; he assisted both of them, then motioned for one of the seamen to enter. He came alive and climbed in. "You're in charge," Lincoln said, "we're not putting down yet, but I'm having her lowered most of the way." He glanced down the deck again. The list had increased. "Captain Bartlett's gonna order them off in any moment, I want them as close to down as we can get them."

Three other sailors helped more women into the boat while Lincoln went to the next davit over, a distance of less than five feet. This one sat flush with the deck and ready for loading. He scanned the faces clustered before him and pointed to a woman with eyeglasses. "Come on, Miss," Lincoln said and flashed a tight smile to lighten the mood, "step right up and be the first aboard the SS Save Our Souls."

A few of the RAMC men chuckled and the woman, bowing her head, came forward. Down the deck, boats hung suspended in midair like fat spiders from webs, swaying and jerking as seamen worked the pulley davits. One far forward reached the waterline and came to a halt mere inches above the waves. Smoke billowed from the funnels and swept aft. The ship, as far as Lincoln could tell, had not turned in the direction of Kea yet; it ploughed dumbly forward, toward open sea. From the the occasional shudders that raced through her and the awful grinding sounds every couple minutes, he deduced that the steering was out. Several times as he studied the rudder, it shivered but did not flex back and forth the way it should have. He assumed Captain Bartlett was aware and attempting other maneuvers, but they didn't seem to be working.

Lincoln held the girl's hand and helped her in while the seamen aided a man with one arm over the side. The crowd moved forward as the front ranks entered, and, in minutes, both crafts were filled and the herd on deck had thinned considerably. "Alright, boys," Lincoln said to the RAMC men, "all empty spots go to you."

They came on and climbed in, a dozen and a half with nine finding places. He looked around, and started when he registered Nurse Forsythe standing against the wall flanking a door, her fat arms folded defensively over her ample chest and her face the color of spoiled milk. She trained her eyes steadily on the deck and shivered as surely as the liner beneath her feet. "Hold on," Lincoln said. He turned to the boat and scanned it. Full. The first male face he settled on was a sea scout named Worthington - fifteen, if Lincoln remembered, certainly no older.

When he was fifteen, Lincoln was, for all intents and purposes, a man just as Worthington was a man, but even so, he couldn't bring himself to ask the lad out. He turned instead to an RAMC corporeal. "There's a woman still," he said simply.

Without complaint or protest, the man got up and climbed out, joining a group of other men standing back from the davits. "Miss Forsythe?" Lincoln asked. The woman made no indication that she heard; she trembled as if with cold and rocked back on her heels, looking for all the world like a patient in an asylum. "Miss Forsythe." Louder. Firmer. She glanced up, and holy terror was clear on her face. "Into the boat," he said and gestured.

Her dark eyes widened and she jerked her head back and forth. "I'm not going in there," she said lowly.

Ah, so the tough nurse marm was afraid of getting into a lifeboat. Many women were, and some men too; they believed skiffs such as these small, frail, cramped, and intimidating compared to a vessel like _Britannic._ "Ma'am, you're going to have to get into one sooner or later," Lincoln said as gently as he could, "we are sinking."

She winced as though he'd slapped her and gave a body-wide shiver much like a penguin. She hugged herself and rocked back and forth, her chest heaving as she took great, gulping breaths. Lincoln waited a moment to see if she would come, but she did not. "You can swim for it if you like," he offered.

With a vehement shake of the head, she approached, her steps shaky and heedful like a woman picking her way across an icy pond. Lincoln held out his hand and clutched her around the upper arm. Her muscles stiffened and she shook harder. "The boat is perfectly safe, ma'am," Lincoln assured her. "You're far better off there than you are here."

"Don't let me fall," she plead. She clenched her eyes shut as if to block out some terrible calamity and ground her teeth nervously.

"You're not going to fall," Lincoln said, "I've got you."

Several RAMC men stood up from the boat and reached out to help, one taking her about the wrist and another grasping her shoulder. "In you go," Lincoln cooed like a man to a fussy child and handed her off. She took a tentative step down into the boat, then dropped into the empty spot as though the energy ran right out of her. Lincoln stepped back and looked to the seamen manning the davits. "Alright, lower away," he said, "left and right together."

They set to work and Lincoln observed, turning when Jack Bride appeared at his right elbow, a distraught look on his face. "Mr. Loud, something's wrong with the wireless. We're not getting anything back."

One side of the aftermost boat dropped faster than the other, and for a moment it was as badly slanted as _Britannic_ itself. Women cried out in alarm and one of the RAMC men spat out a shocked oath. "Keep it steady!" Lincoln called then faced Bride again. "Not getting any response?" he asked to clarify.

"No, sir," Bride said, "just air."

Bloody fuck. Lincoln sighed deeply and fought back an uncharacteristic flush of anger. This blasted situation was stressful enough as it was, now the bleeding wireless was possibly out, which meant they were effectively cut off from the world. It was possible that they could send but not receive. He hoped to Christ it was that, otherwise they'd be in a jam once _Britannic_ went down. "Keep sending," he said, "maybe they can hear us."

Bride nodded and darted off down the deck, disappearing into the congregation. Forward, a number of boats sat just above the water or actually in but still attached to the davits. Lincoln turned and peered down into one of the boats under his charge; it hovered roughly six feet over the swell. "More, sir?" the seaman asked.

Lincoln considered for a moment. "Put her in but don't cast off," he commanded.

"Aye, sir." He fed more line through the pulley then stopped once the boat's keel touched the water.

A ripple of confusion went through those aboard like a wave, and a stoker in a lifebelt called up. "Why have we stopped?"

Grabbing the line, Lincoln leaned heavily over and cupped his hand to his mouth. "I haven't got orders," he shouted back.

"Orders?" someone else cried indignantly, "we're sinking, for Christ's sake!"

Lincoln agreed with the sentiment. _Britannic_ was rapidly dipping and about now, he imagined, the ocean was probably lapping at her nameplate. Reaching Kea may have been a possibility before, but it certainly was not now - they hadn't turned yet and each moment they steamed forward, more water gushed in through the wound along her hull. Even so, Captain Bartlett issued instructions to not set the boats off yet, and Lincoln intended to obey his commander. Should the situation worsen, he would take matters into his own hands and make decisions for himself, but as of now, things weren't quite so dire. "You'll simply have to wait," he called down.

The second of his two crafts sat down next to the first, and the seamen operating the davits ceased. One of the men below cursed, and Lincoln started to snap at him, but turned in the direction of the bow when someone yelled his name.

Standing aside a davit, Wright beckoned him over. Lincoln glanced over his shoulder. "Standby for my orders," he said.

"Aye, sir," one of the seamen replied.

Swiping the back of his hand across his sweaty brow, Lincoln went over to Wright's position, the list forward and to starboard so great now that he had to make a conscious effort to keep his footing. The two boats under Wright sat astride the deck, a gallery of worried faces staring down or ahead. "I need a man in this boat," Wright said, "get in."

Lincoln's eyes narrowed. Get in? As in...leave the ship? "Not damn likely," he snorted. There were hundreds of people still aboard, and Lincoln's sense of honor and dignity prevented him from abandoning them. A skipper and his crew are responsible for the passengers on their ship, whether they're vacationers on holiday or military personnel. When Lincoln put to sea, he knew this, and vowed to always do his best by the people in his care; in the current matter, he'd be far more useful here than on a lifeboat watching like a bloody spectator.

"I need an officer," Wright said, "every fourth boat -"

"You go then."

Wright blinked in surprise. "Go then," Lincoln urged, "I'll take over. What other boats are you assigned?"

The fifth officer appeared stricken for a moment. "Uh...1C through 2D on port."

Lincoln nodded. His other boats were on that side as well. Once he got the order to send off, he'd see these ones away then cross over. Until then, he was obligated to stay here and keep watch on things. "Alright, I'll see to it they're filled."

Wright hesitated, seeming torn between staying and going, then took a deep breath. If he was anything like Lincoln - and, despite his jocular nature, he was, very much - he didn't want to leave either. Unlike him, however, he was scared: It was readily evident in his bloodless face and had been since the meeting in the chartroom. Lincoln could not fault him for being frightened, though he could not understand it. Perhaps he placed too high a value on his life...or maybe Lincoln placed too low a value on _his_. Hard to see too much worth in yourself when you came from the stock Lincoln did, and were constantly reminded of it ashore.

Making up his mind, Wright nodded. "Right then." He cracked a wan smile that didn't touch his eyes. He clapped Lincoln's arm. "Good luck."

"I don't need luck," Lincoln said seriously, "I've my wits about me."

Chuckling humorlessly, Wright nodded. "Well, keep 'em and I'll see you on land, eh?"

"That's where we're apt to be after this," Lincoln said.

Wright lingered a moment, then climbed into the boat. The seamen at the davits watched Lincoln expectantly as he stood back. He lifted his arms out on either side of him as if in a mocking parody of Christ on the cross and fluttered his hand. "Lower away. Keep the lines on and don't put off 'till I give the word."

Falling to action, the seamen did as they were told, and slowly, jerking on their way down, the boats disappeared below the rim of the deck, as steady and together as one could hope them to be. A shudder ran through the ship and that terrible grinding noise filled the air, blotting out even the alarm bells' damned endless ringing. The helmsman was trying to turn her again but failing: _Britannic_ kept her course, chugging along at ten or twelve knots, barely hard enough to stir a breeze. Was Bartlett going to cut his losses soon? Christ above, the man might be the master, but he was right sinking them!

Wright's boats touched the water and bobbed in the swell. Lincoln grabbed hold of the line, looked down to make sure they were still tethered, saw that they were, and -

"Sir! SIR!"

Lincoln whipped his head around. One of the seamen at the aft davit stared over the side in a fluster. Releasing the line, Lincoln stalked over and followed his gaze, starting when he saw that both of the boats he sent down before Wright's were free. A commotion seemed to be afoot, and as Lincoln watched, a man scrambled over the side and dropped into the water. Lincoln's eyes went from the turmoil to the giant propeller blades, higher now and whirring in a fast blur of indomitable speed. The ship moved forward, but the boats remained still, bobbing, the spinning metal coming closer...closer.

More men cried out and jumped, splashing into the water and swimming for their lives. Lincoln's heart seized and he grabbed the line hanging from the davit. "Shove off!" he cried, "shove off! Use the oars, goddamn you!"

Men and women both, lost in their terror, attempted to clamber over, and the boat tipped, spilling them into the drink. Lincoln leaned even farther forward, every muscle in his body straining to spring and his chest crushing in breathless dread. A seaman flanked him on either side now, tension radiating from them in waves. The urge to dive in and render assistance gripped him, but he had sense enough to know there was little he would be able to do.

"Tell them to stop the goddamn engines," he snapped at one of the seamen, a frenzied edge in his voice. The seaman nodded quickly and rushed off.

Below, the boat rocked back and forth in the white, choppy water, its keel facing the sky and one poor damned fool clinging desperately to it. The people in the second one jammed oars against the hull and desperately tried to push away from the ship, howls and exclamations rising up. Heads bobbed in the surf, struggling against the suction.

"Swim!" he cried. "Swim, goddamn it!"

The rotors came closer still, and Lincoln could only watch, helpless, as, with a terrible roar of smashing wood and high, agonized screams, the first boat and everyone around it were pulled in. Bodies disappeared as they were chopped to bits and jagged slivers of boat were thrown aside. He distinctly saw Nurse Forsythe knocked under and reappear moments later without a head, and drawing horror came over him in a cold, ghastly pall; his gord rose and his stomach wrenched.

A few people made it clear and clung to bits of wreckage. Severed heads, limbs, mangled trunks, and splinters clogged the red tinged water.

Remembering the second boat, he ripped his eyes away from the pitible scene and turned to it; screaming men used oars, their hands, and their feet in a panic-stricken attempt to shove back from the hull. Lincoln looked about for something, anything, he could do to help; God, he couldn't stand by and watch it again, he had to do something. The blades were coming fast, and in a snap, Lincoln judged that there was no time for them to clear. "Out!" he called, hysteria threatening to well in his chest. "Out of the fucking boat! Out! Out!"

Three men gave up the fight and leapt into the churning sea. The boat swung around in a wide arc and sailed directly into the maelstrom. This time, Lincoln looked away, his eyes clamping shut and his teeth clenching in a pained expression of impotent frustration. Screams, weeping, and prayers to God ripped through him like buckshot...then cut off with an explosion of pulverizing boards, making him wince. Horrified gasps and soft sobbing burst from a few women on deck. Lincoln opened his eyes as a nurse threw herself against a stunned RAMC officer with an ashen face and tortured eyes. He closed his arms about her stiffly, moving like a man in a trance, and she wept into his chest.

In his time at sea, Lincoln had met many challenges and seen many things that would haunt him if he let them, but never had he been this cold, nor this shaky. His knees quivered like jelly and he held tight to the rope lest he fall and suffer the same fate as those lost souls below. Moments ago, they were living, breathing beings, someone's beloved son or cherished daughter, and now...in the twinkling of an eye...they were so much flotsam and kibble for the fish, their lives, their love, and everything they held dear ripped away and cast to the bottom.

One of the seaman turned away, shaken, and leaned against the davit for support. Lincoln forced his gaze back to the sea, where a nurse swam furiously toward Wright's boat, which was still attached to the ship, the draw of the propellers pulling her back. Wright bent over the bow and held his hand out. "Come on!" he screamed frantically. "Closer!"

She threw a horrified glance over her shoulder and swam harder. Lincoln was transfixed, his heart beating quickly in keen suspense. "Come on, come on," he muttered and licked his lips. The blades came closer as the ship steamed forward, feet behind; she was outpacing it, the poor girl, but just barely.

Wright leaned over even more, half out now, and stretched his arm toward her. Go on, go on, get her, damn it, get her.

Seeing salvation so close, she summoned everything she had and paddled faster. Wright grabbed hold of her hand, and relief washed through Lincoln..then turned to dismay when Wright's balance upset and he toppled over, joining the woman in the drink. The water swept them back and Lincoln's stomach bottomed out. "Grab the line! Grab the line!" he cried and shook the rope danging from the davit. Wright turned in the eddy and clutched for the fall...but missed. Lincoln caught a flash of his friend's upturned face, mouth open in a silent scream drowned out by the din of the oncoming blades...then he, and the nurse, were gone, cut to ribbons and their parts pushed out to sea.

Lincoln's knees finally gave out and he nearly fell over the side. Below, the women in Wright's boat hid their eyes and sobbed softly; the men largely kept their composure, but you could see the anguish written across their sallow visages.

"T-T-They cast off on their own, sir," one of the seamen stammered dazedly and Lincoln turned to him, really looking at him for the first time, a boy of no older than seventeen whose blues eyes were wide in staring traumatism. His voice was hollow and shell-shocked. "T-They said to hell with your orders and cut the ropes. I-I-I tried to stop them, sir, I swear to God, I tried."

Lincoln opened his mouth but didn't trust himself to speak. Instead, his simply put his hand on the boy's shoulder, his eyes going to the murderous propeller - as if by cue, the ominous roar cut, and the blades began to slow...then, with a mocking flourish, cut out for all time.

"I'm sorry," the boy muttered, "I should have...I-I…"

As much as the boy might need solace, Lincoln had no time to spare it. With a sharp squeeze, he said, "You did everything you could, now buck up." He glanced over his shoulder and spotted Mason standing before a loaded boat not yet lowered. Women and men lined the way, calmly waiting their turn, and the surreality of their cool dispassion after the dreadful things he'd just witnessed made his head spin. Letting go of the boy, Lincoln turned toward Mason, cupped his hands to his mouth, and sang out. "Are we putting off the boats now?"

Mason looked at him, lifted one arm, palm down, and motioned that they were. Bloody Christ, about goddamn time. If those blasted blades had cut two minutes earlier...two bleeding minutes…

"Free the boats," he said and gestured toward the davits. There was no force in his voice, and he didn't think there ever would be again.

* * *

Lynn climbed the steps and trailed her hand along the banister, her lips pursed severely and her eyes darting nervously toward the elaborate ironwork beneath the rail. She could plainly hear the mighty roar of the water two decks below, and, pausing, she leaned over and peered down. Was it her imagination, or was the sea higher than it was a few moments ago? Her heartbeat sped up but she held herself together: There were men ahead who needed her help, and she'd be no help to them if she allowed her nerves to get the better of her.

The steward reached the top and waited for her to join him. A wide, ornate space with tile floors, paneled walls, and potted plants opened up before them, the stairs to the first class entrance to the right and a corridor lined with staterooms to the left. The list wasn't quite as noticeable on the stairs, but here it was: The floor slanted heavily in the direction of the bow and along the hall, doors hung open. Behind her, something made of glass exploded against the floor and her heart leapt into her throat. She spun on her heels and spotted a broken lamp lying in shards next to an end table. A glass ashtray slid along its surface as if pushed by a ghostly hand, then dropped over the side and shattered next to the lamp. "They're up here," the steward said and nodded down the passageway. There was a ward at the other end for men with illnesses, the logic being to keep them separated from the others, as, given their injuries, their immune systems might be compromised and unable to fight off infection the way a healthy person's can. She was originally posted there when she first boarded _Britannic,_ but she kept catching cold and needing time in bed; finally Nurse Hester, the head matron of C-Deck, got fed up and transferred her to B-Deck.

"How many?" she asked as she and the steward crossed the lobby and started down the corridor. She didn't know why she was surprised that the floor was free of clutter, but she was; she half expected suitcases, clothes, and other things to have been left behind in a panic, but the way stood open and clear. Perhaps she anticipated a sinking ship to look more distressed than _Britannic_ looked now. She seemed...normal, as though it were nothing but an ordinary day at sea; other than the ever growing forward tilt (and the collateral damage it caused, poor lamp), you'd never know anything was wrong.

The steward ticked his head from side to side in thought. "Not many, miss. Five or so."

"Were they abandoned?" Lynn asked, her voice edged with outrage. She imagined sick men alone and afraid as the world steadily tilted around them, and a ball of rage knotted her chest. What kind of animal...what kind of _bitch..._ would go off and leave someone in a time like this?

"No, ma'am," the steward said. "There's people with them, but not enough to bring them all up at once."

That was better, though why in the name of God above wouldn't more nurses do what she was and come to check? Didn't they care? She could understand being afraid to an extent, but enough to hurry for the boats without heed for wounded men who couldn't see to themselves? How awful! She'd rather die trying to help than live with the knowledge that she stood aside and let men drown like rats.

Ahead, a T-shaped junction appeared, and the steward turned right. The ward was beyond the second class reading room, which served now as a dentist's office. _Britannic_ came equipped with state-of-the-art technology and boasted every kind of doctor you could imagine, some of them the best in all of England. You could have your teeth pulled, your brain lobotomized, and your child birthed all on the same deck. There wasn't much demand for the latter two services, but six months ago a nurse _did_ have a baby in the birthing theater. She and a sailor got up to something they shouldn't have and she managed to hide the pregnancy since she was such a tiny thing - she hardly showed at all, and no one knew until she went into labor in the middle of the dining hall.

It occurred to Lynn that other than the steward, she hadn't seen another soul since the first class stairway on A-Deck. She was used to the ship being nearly deserted, but even at night, when she sneaked out for a cigarette, she always met at least a couple people along the way.

They were coming upon the ward now - it opened up on the left, a wide, windowless space that was, if Lynn remembered, designed as a squash court before _Britannic_ was called up by the Admiralty and converted into a hospital ship. The swimming pool was in the opposite direction. Not much would change in there once the ship was all down.

"In here, miss," the steward said and went into the ward. Lynn followed, sparing a glance over her shoulder, then stopped, confusion flooding her. Two rows of beds, some of them crooked from sliding with the list, faced each other, twelve against the starboard most wall and twelve against the port wall.

Each one of them was empty.

She opened her mouth to ask where the men were, but, in a flash, the steward was shoving her against the wall, his large, rough hand closing around her throat. His face, nondescript and amiable before, was now twisted in something approaching rage, his lips pulled back from his teeth and his eyes burning with the fires of hell. Lynn cried out, her voice a strangled gasp, and reflexively grabbed his arm, whereupon he brought his free hand up then across her face with a fleshy _thwack._ Stars burst across the backs of her eyelids and hot, throbbing pain enveloped her rattled brain. He grabbed her by the face, squeezed her cheeks, mushed her lips together, and brought his nose to hers; her heart came to a crashing halt and her eyes widened in terror.

"Keep real quiet and do what I say," he said, His fetid breath, redolent of rotten eggs and tobacco, rolled into her nostrils like a cloud of chlorine gas, and she gagged. "Be a good girl and I'll let you go, yeah?"

Lynn was frozen in mortal fear, her muscles locked and her ears ringing from the blow and the lack of oxygen getting to her lungs. She could breathe but just enough to keep from passing out: Her numb face tingled unpleasantly and warm dizziness flooded her head. He grinned and dug his nails into the soft flesh of her neck and used his free hand to pull the cap from her head. He tossed it away and brushed his knuckles across her cheek, the sensation of his touch sending ripples of revulsion panging through her body. A series of broken sobs drifted to her ears, and she realized they were coming from her own lips.

Reaching behind her, the steward undid her bun, and her hair fell free, spilling over her shoulders in a brown tangle. His leer sharpened, and Lynn started to shake - she knew instinctively what he wanted, and the wicked hunger in his eyes, that you'd see in a dog staring at a steak, scared her so badly her knees buckled. He responded by tightening his grip around her throat and pinning the back of her head against the wall; he took a step forward and pressed his body to hers. Her brain screamed at her to fight him off and run, but, while not a big man, he was bigger than her, and his arms, though wiry, thrummed with power. The side of her face stung from his slap and when he lifted his hand, she flinched like a skittish dog.

"You're a good lookin' chit," he panted and rubbed his groin slowly against her center; her heart skipped and her breathing sharply caught. He slipped his fingers into her hair and wrenched her head to the side; tears welled in her eyes and she yelped at the pain. In that moment it dawned on her just how defenseless she was, a woman who stood barely five-six and weighed no more than one-hundred-ten pounds; she was completely and totally at his mercy, and from the gleam in his black eyes, she would receive none whatsoever.

He planted a hungry kiss to her cheek, then lower, his ragged breath hot on her skin; there was no warmth in it, no passion, only dumb, blind, selfish lust. A shudder of disgust tore through her, and he gave her neck a warning squeeze. He reached her neck, molded his lips to her pulse, and sucked her skin like a vampire in a gothic novel. She began to hyperventilate and tears spilled down her cheeks. In all her life, she'd never felt as weak and helpless as she did right now.

Swallowing hard, she found her voice. "P-Please stop," she stuttered.

The steward ignored her and, letting go of her hair, moved his hand over her chest, his palm skimming her breast and his fingers kneading it. The skin along her spine crawled and her breathing came faster, harder. She tried to pull away from his touch, and he squeezed her throat harder, cutting her air supply off entirely. Panic clawed at her chest and she gasped for air, but succeeded only in drawing a whiff of his rotten breath into her mouth. "Stop fightin'," he commanded, "or I'll snap your neck like a wee twig." He drew back and looked her in the eyes, the sinister set of his brow and the intensity of his gaze stopping her heart. "Will you listen?" Her lungs burst hotly and warm vertigo surged through her brain, consuming it and tingling the edges of her vision gray. How much of this could she stand before she lost consciousness? How long could she live without air before death claimed her? "Will you listen?" he repeated.

Silently, she nodded.

With a self-satisfied smirk, he eased up, and she sucked a deep, shivery breath. He buried his face in the crook her her neck and assaulted her with cold, urgent kisses, the slimy feeling of his spit smearing across her skin making her tremble in disgust. He cupped her breast in his hand and smooshed it against her chest, his fingertips biting into her. She swallowed around a lump of icy horror and squeezed her eyes closed. There was nothing she could do but let him have his way with her and hope he kept his promise to let her go when it was over.

"You like it?" he panted and licked her flesh. She cringed but didn't respond, couldn't respond. He moved his hand down from her breast and over her stomach, the trailing of his fingers across her midsection stirring dread deep in the pit of her guts. She fought to control her breathing and tried to stop herself shaking, but couldn't; a whimper ruptured from her constricting throat and she started to cry in earnest. The steward smiled against the side of her neck, as though her shame, fear, and repugnance amused him.

More times than she could count, she'd dreamed of a man touching her the way he touched her now, but not like this; this was a mockery of everything she had ever wanted, a perversion of the beauty she'd long imagined coming with a man's affection. He touched her not with love or affection, but with animal lust, looked at her not with tender reverence, but as though she were a piece of meat, an object there only for his own fevered gratification. He did not woo her or strive to win her hand, he attacked her and designed to take what wasn't his, what she had not offered. She feared at one point that she would give herself to any man who so much as looked at her, like a common whore, but as the steward molested her, she knew in her heart that she never could - her thoughts and carnal desires were inextricably bound to love, respect, and understanding. A slag seeks only pleasures of the body, _she_ yearned for pleasure of the heart, which would only _then_ lead to pleasures of the body.

This vile creature was a spit in the face of everything Lynn valued in a man, and the thought of allowing him to steal her most scared gift as a woman turned her stomach. A ball of fury formed in her chest and her hands curled into fists. The tremors racing through her frame took on a different character, no longer of fear now but of righteous indignation. She did not know to whom she would give herself, but it would be a good, kind, upstanding man, and most decidedly _not_ to the monster even now sliding his grubby paw down her hip and toward her middle - the ingress of her spirit that she would one day share with her beloved...and no one else.

Every muscle in Lynn's body coiled in expectation; her heart slammed fearfully; her stomach gurgled sickly; a flush spread across her face and her teeth ground together. The expression upon her features morphed visibly from grim resignation to vengeful wrath. The steward slipped his hand between her legs, and, shocking herself, Lynn struck, bringing her fist around and crashing it into his temple. He let out a breathless _umph_ and staggered back, his grip loosening but not releasing all the way. Desperate, like small, docile animal backed into a corner and fighting for its life, she lashed out again, hitting him in the nose; it burst under her knuckles and he wailed in agony, his hand falling limp from her throat.

Mindless in her swivet, she flung her body forward and shot out her arms, driving him away; his feet tangled and he fell hard on his bottom, landing with a grunt. Like a shot, Lynn ducked through the door and pounded down the hall, her arms and legs pumping and hot exhalations exploding from her lips. She jerked a harried glance over her shoulder, and her heart leapt painfully when he staggered out after her, blood gushing down the front of his white jacket and his eyes blazing with hatred. She whipped her head back around and ran faster, sailing past the passage back to the first class stairway before she could change course. Ahead, the corridor opened up for a hundred feet before terminating at another hall, bare pipes and wires creeping across the blinding white walls like ivy. She used it many times during her time working the sick ward, and knew that it ran the entire length of the ship: Left to the stern, right to the bow.

Reaching it, she unthinkingly hung a sharp right, the floor slanting down and slightly to starboard. One of her shoes came off, and she stopped just long enough to kick her leg up, bend, and remove the other one, her heart spasming when the steward screamed behind her. "Come back here, you bloody fucking bitch!" His voice reverberated like a crack of thunder, and her soul withered at the storming choler in his tone. She cried involuntarily out, ripped the shoe from her foot, and started running again, her stockinged feet slapping the chilly tile floor with a rhythmic beat. Behind her, the steward slid into the hall and gave chase, the sound of his footfalls loud as the hoofbeats of approaching doom. Lynn's heart blasted and her she drove herself harder. "Fucking bitch! I'll murder you!"

An archway appeared on her right and she threw herself through, stumbling down a set of stairs descending to D-Deck. At the bottom, standing water, ankle high, lapped at the bottom tread, and Lynn screeched to a halt, only then detecting the roar of flooding over the unsteady jagging of her own heart. She didn't have time to think before the steward's swelling footsteps broke upon her: Reacting, she continued down, her feet splashing and her stockings dampening. A wall blocked her right, and she had no choice but to go left, farther forward, the ocean getting deeper as she went, to her calves, now nearly to her knees, tepid and flowing. The walls creaked and groaned around her, and at the end, which came to yet another T-shaped junction, the sea churned tumultuously.

She made a grave mistake coming down here. She looked over her shoulder, and fifty feet back or more, the steward stood on the bottom step, staring hesitantly down at the rising water. He looked up, and his eyes locked with Lynn's, stopping her heart. She found herself hoping he'd buckle and run like the coward he so clearly was, but instead, to her dismay, he stepped into the water and came for her. A panicked gasp escaped her throat and she turned back to the cross hall. The sea was rising rapidly, its surface white and churning; just in the few seconds she'd been standing here, it crept from below her knees to over her knees.

Trapped.

Like a rat. In front of her, liquid death, behind her, she could not guess nor wanted to. The stark revelation hit her then that this would most likely be the last decision she ever made on earth: To drown, or to die at the hands of a crazed sex pervert. In one eventuality, survival was still possible, but her chastity would be ripped asunder, her body violated. In the other, she would die, but with her honor and dignity preserved.

It took only a moment for her to make up her mind and start toward the hall, moving as quickly as she could through the waist depth water, shortly reaching the junction. To her right, a set of double doors to the crew galley moaned darkly, water gushing through the slit between them, and at her left, more water bubbled up from a stairway - or what was once a stairway, for now it was a simmering cauldron of white, frothing sea. She looked about for some means of escape, and spotted, as if by the work of God himself, a ladder festooned to the wall; she'd passed it a thousand times before but utterly forgot it existed - it was an access to C-Deck for the crewmen. Salvation was yet possible.

Lynn made for it and reached it, her hand closing around the fifth to bottom rung. She pulled herself up and out of the water, her slender arms quivering with exertion. She started to climb, clearing the water entirely, but suddenly, the steward was on top of her, one strong hand closing around her ankle and the other snatching the back of her dress. A cry of alarm was shocked from her throat and she held tight to the ladder lest she be dragged off. "You fuckin' twit," he hissed through his teeth and wrenched her downward with a crisp rip of tearing fabric; she clung to the ladder and threw her free foot back, catching him in the forehead, which only served to enrage him further. She glanced up at the deck above, less than ten feet. If she could get free of him, she could scurry up and to safety.

She kicked back again, but he caught her foot and, in spite, slammed it against one of the rungs. Stinging red pain streaked up her leg and she howled her misery. The hollow groaning of the ship was getting louder all the time and the roar of the rapidly rising water increased to a deafening crescendo. The steward pulled down with all his might, and Lynn's hands began to slip; her heart blasted into her throat and she gritted her teeth as she fought to keep her hold. "Leave me alone!"

All at once, as if in response to her command, the double doors at the end of the hall gave out, and with a sound of splintering wood, a seething wall of water surged out. The steward fell back a step, his eyes wide with horror and his hand still clamping Lynn's ankle; it hit him with enough force to sweep him away, and Lynn wailed as her ankle twisted round, agony swelling against the inside of her skull. His grip released, and he was gone. The water battered her about the side, threatening to knock her off, and, panting against the throbbing pain in her foot, she dragged herself slowly up, emerging from the water and casting a final look down like Lot's wife at the destruction of Sodom: The entire hall was flooded now, the gurgling sea just beneath her and coming higher fast.

She pulled herself up and shrieked when her wounded ankle brushed one of the lower rungs. She stopped to catch her breath, then, screwing her face up at what was to come, she scrambled hurriedly up, her bad foot dangling and slapping against the rungs as she ascended, the pain making her dizzy, but not surpassing her will to live.

At the top, she crawled over the edge and dropped to her side in a panting, achy heap: She was in the richly appointed second class smoking room, which acted as a lounge. Comfortable, leather upholstered wingback chairs, end tables, and couches clustered round the fireplace, while tables and chairs meant for eating and card games occupied a wide space toward the entrance - the door stood closed given the angle of the list, and, as if to demonstrate the urgency of the situation, one of the end tables slid against an ornately carved wall, its feet scraping the thin, diamond patterned carpet.

Gasping for air and trembling all over, Lynn rolled onto her back, moaned at the pain, and struggled to regulate her breathing. She had to hurry - if she waited too long, the water would get her. She thought back to the steward's face as the sea took him, and a shiver went down her spine. As awful as he was, the thought of him being trapped beneath the waves and drowned, gasping for air and pulling water into his lungs instead, realizing with panic that he was going to die, disturbed her, and the prospect of sharing his fate downright petrified her.

Taking a deep breath, she turned, got her knees under her, and tried to stand, but her legs wouldn't support her, and she sank to the floor. She couldn't tarry, the water was getting closer and she had to get to a boat.

On her hands and knees like an overgrown babe, she spun in the direction of the door, face set in determination, and started to crawl….


	6. Death of a Titan

_**November 21, 1916**_

The tilt to starboard had grown exponentially over the previous ten minutes, becoming far steeper than the list forward. Faint smoke rolled from the forward three funnels and dispersed in the warm, tropical wind; the smell of salt tinged the air and gulls flew and wheeled overhead, some alighting on the after mast and watching the evacuation with detached curiosity. The bow rested mere feet above the water, which lapped hungrily at the hull, and the propellers, still now for all time, were completely exposed. Given the degree of the rightward slant, the port deck sat a great deal higher than the starboard, and standing was becoming difficult. In the wireless room, Harold Phillips sat at the apparatus and tapped out another distress call, Jack Bride bent next to him, one hand on the table and the other on the back of Phillips' chair. Bride, at some point, donned his life vest, and sat Phillips' next to him.

As he worked, Phillips held the headphones as close to his ear as he could; perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought he heard something, and if he strained, he might be able to make out a reply in the white noise.

In the wheelhouse, Captain Bartlett collected the ship's manifest, log, and passenger registry, shoved them into a green seabag, and drew the string tight. Officer Stone stood by the door leading to the starboard boat deck, his hands clasped behind his back and his face expressionless. His feet were planted farther apart than normal so as to retain his footing.

Beyond the windows overlooking the forecastle, the sea appeared so close to washing over the deck that Bartlett expected it to happen at any moment. He turned away and crossed to his second-in-command, the floor sloping heavily beneath him. Without a word, he handed the bag to Stone, who patiently awaited further instruction. Bartlett did not meet his eyes when he said, "See to the passengers, then go yourself."

Stone hesitated, then nodded. "Anything else, sir?"

Bartlett considered the question a moment. He glanced out the window and frowned. He couldn't think of anything. "No, that'll be all," he finally said. "There's not much else to be done. Before you go, make sure all the women are off. And the patients too. Otherwise, you're free to go." He turned pointedly away and laid his hand on the wheel, watching from his periphery as Stone lingered, then left.

Alone, Bartlett allowed himself a deep, gloomy sigh. Everything happening now, from the men dead and minced in the water to the millions of pounds in damages the sinking would cause rested firmly on his shoulders, and his shoulders alone. One cannot help hitting a mine - and he was certain that it was a mine - but the master of a ship is responsible regardless, he believed. He may not have caused the fatal wound, but that didn't stop shame from abiding deep within him.

Two hundred yards off _Britannic's_ starboard side, Colleen Kennedy sat next to Mr. Charles in Boat 15C and stared rapt at the sight before her: The ship rested at a shallow diagonal angle, its stern risen high enough from the water line that the red paint of its keel and its giant propellers were both visible, and the head sitting so low that the bow deck was dangerously close to being consumed by the waves. The Union Jack fluttered proudly from the top of the aft mast, and smoke still billowed from the funnels - save for the last one, which was purely for ventilation. Officer Wright told her that once. Remembering their plans to walk the deck this morning, she felt a rush of bitter disappointment. She hoped he was alright; she rather liked him.

Beside her, Mr. Charles watched the ship as well, one foot tapping restlessly against the floor of the boat. He was upset that Lynn wasn't with them and, at first, refused to get into the boat without her. Colleen didn't know where Lynn went, but, though she wouldn't show it for Mr. Charles's sake, she was worried as well.

On the port deck, Lincoln stood back as the aft crane davit, hitherto standing vertical, leaned forward with a mechanical whirr. It clanged to a stop, suspending a packed boat more than a hundred feet over the sea. The sailor operating the lever pressed a button, and the wires tethering the boat fed through the riggings, lowering it slowly and evenly. It passed deck level and disappeared; beyond, other boats dotted the sparkling blue ocean, some pulling away and others simply floating in the swell, standing by to pick up survivors once the ship was down. When it touched the water, the seamen inside cast off the cables, hefted their oars, and started rowing. Lincoln glanced down the deck and absently chewed the inside of his bottom lip as he considered his next move. The list to starboard was nearly ten degrees, he judged, and launching boats from the traditional Welin davits was impossible: The last one he sent off scraped against the hull on its way down and nearly capsized. It took him and three seamen holding the lines with all their might to keep it steady; his palms were covered in nasty rope burns that ached and throbbed with every beat of his heart, and each time he cheeked, his flesh was still tacky with blood.

This was the final gantry davit on this side, and all of the other boats on port were virtually useless. He looked at the four seamen under his command and scrunched his lips to the side. There _were_ the collapsibles stored amidships - boats with hard bottoms and canvas sides. "Alright, men, follow me," he said. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and started forward, brushing past an RAMC man emerging from a doorway. "No boats on this side," he said, "go starboard."

The RAMC man nodded and hurried off.

Along the way, Lincoln passed a neat pile of wooden deck chairs stacked in an alcove. "Toss those over the side," he commanded and gestured. In the absence of boats, deck chairs made excellation flotation devices. Two of the men stopped, grabbed one in each hand, and carried them to an empty set of davits, throwing them into the sea with a series of flat splashes.

The collapsibles were housed in a special storage shed at the foot of the third funnel back. Lincoln turned briskly and climbed a set of metal stairs, the smokestack looming over him like a modern colossus. He produced a key from his jacket pocket, inserted it into the padlock, and twisted. He whipped the chain away, dropped it onto the deck, and opened the doors. His men stood by, ready for orders. "Drag them out and we'll take them to starboard."

"Aye, sir," one said. They set to work, and Lincoln went to the rail overlooking the starboard side. In the distance, boats bobbed in the surf and, on deck, a crush of men loaded into three more; most of the davits were empty, the lines hanging over the sides; the only boats he saw were the ones closest to the navigation bridge. He scanned the faces below, looking for Wright...then, with a shudder, remembered.

Shoving those thoughts aside lest they overwhelm him, he stared toward the bow; water was beginning to wash across the deck beneath the raised forecastle from starboard. He did a quick bit of math in his head, and ascertained that when she went, she'd most likely go on her side more so than by the front. He and his men could pull the collapsibles to the wheelhouse then, as she started to go, push them off as the water came level with the boat deck.

Turning, he went over to the shed, where three boats lie near the top of the stairs, their soft sides folded down. Collapsibles were considerably lighter than normal wooden boats, but they were still heavy enough to need two men to carry them. Nodding toward the rail, Lincoln walked over and waited; two men brought one over and Lincoln called "Look out below!" Then, with that, they tossed it over the side; it landed on the deck with a thump.

Once all three boats had been dropped onto the deck, Lincoln and his men went down the stairs then around. On his way, he looked around for an extra set of hands, and spotted an RAMC officer leaning against a wall flanking a door. "You there," Lincoln called, and the man looked at him. "A spot of help, please?"

Without question, the man came over. Lincoln picked up one side of the boat - the others already having been sprinted away by his men - and nodded to the other. "Grab that side."

The man squatted, picked it up, then waited. "Alright, come on."

Walking backwards down the deck, Lincoln stared over his shoulder to make sure the path was clear. At the wheelhouse, Lincoln dropped his end. "Right then," he said, "thank you for your help."

"Pleasure," the man said politely, then turned and went aft again, disappearing into the crowd.

Lincoln glanced down at the boat, but stopped when the roar of the sea found his ears. Frowning, he went to the wing wall and peered over. Swirling water covered most of the bow, cranes and capstans jutting from the rapidly rising tempest. For the first time since the blast, a true, keen sense of urgency gripped him. He pushed away and turned to his men, who were busy setting up the boats. "She's starting to go, boys," he said, and they all glanced up at him, their already ashen faces growing whiter. "Step lively."

They looked at each other, then stepped as lively as anyone Lincoln had ever seen.

* * *

Lynn leaned heavily against a wood support column and rested to catch her breath; her ankle ached monstrously and her slender frame trembled with exhaustion. She'd been pulling herself along for fifteen minutes, hopping on one leg and steadying herself on the wall, tables, and anything else she happened across. The list to starboard was much, much deeper now than it was before, and keeping her footing, especially in her state, was quickly becoming impossible. Currently, she was in the first class reception room on B-Deck, far forward of the grand staircase. Ahead of her was a narrow set of steps leading to A - if she could get to them, she'd be able to claw her way to the boat deck where she stood a good chance of being saved. How far between those stairs and the gangway topside? She realized there being a hallway and then another set of stairs leading to the deck, but she wasn't sure as she didn't often come to this part of the ship. She did know that whatever route she took would lead her forward, toward the bow...and the steadily rising water.

On her arduous trek through the bowels of _Britannic,_ she did not let herself dwell on the hopelessness of her situation: When she felt panic threatening to overcome her, she prayed to God, and He soothed her worried heart. All things are possible through Him, the good book says, and that included getting off of this blasted ship.

Taking a series of deep breaths, she hopped toward the stairs on her good foot, her arm out and her hand resting on the column to keep herself even. She hopped again, pulled her hand away, and started to sway; she threw hers arms up on either side of her like a bird and retained her balance. She hopped a third time, and the sloping floor tripped her up; she toppled forward and cried out, landing hard on her hands. The air knocked from her lungs in a rush and her injured foot twisted again, sending a sharp bolt of stomach-turning pain slicing up her leg. Tears welled in her eyes and she bore down on her teeth, cutting off a high whimper; flashing in frustration, she balled her fist and slammed it against the floor.

Getting hold of herself, she drew herself to her hands and knees and started to crawl again, pausing to swipe her bangs from her eyes. The floor seemed to shift beneath her, and though it could have been fancy, she thought the ship listed even more. Her heartbeat quickened and she moved faster, dreadfully sure that at any moment, _Britannic_ would roll over and sink like a stone with her trapped inside. She scuttled across the carpeted floor like a crab, wincing when a clock slid off the mantle over the fireplace and shattered into a million pieces. The ship gave a ghostly groan, and she hurried her pace, reaching the bottom of the stairs and pulling herself up on the banister. She drew her bad foot up behind her and, leaning upon the rail, hopped up one step at a time, pausing frequently. At the landing, the fire snaking up her leg became too great and she sank to her knees, her forehead pressed to the wall and her chest heaving. A familiar din rose behind her, and she turned just in time to see water spreading across the floor. Her stomach flipped and her eyes widened in terror. She darted her gaze to the corridor she just traversed; seawater gushed from vent grates along the baseboard and flowed freely down the canted hallway like a stream over a rocky creek bed. Not much, but a dark hair bringer of things to come.

Looking away, she grabbed the railing and got to her foot with a hiss through clenched teeth. She started up the next flight and reached the top, whereupon she stopped to rest. To her left was a stateroom door, and to the right, a long, wide passage with richly carpeted floors and dark, oaken walls. Brass lamps spaced every five feet provided a low, ambient brilliance that would have been warm and inviting were it not cast upon a grotesquely tilted hall; hours ago it would have been comfortable, now it seemed a nightmarish satire on normality, everything familiar but _off._ The list was so great now that she had to lean against the wall to keep from going over. Panic squeezed her chest and she pushed herself to go faster, hobbling now and panting over her teeth at the pain in her ankle. Things in the rooms on the port side crashed and banged, unable to stay put on the pitching floor, the din wearing on Lynn's frayed nerves and making her heart beat faster. Ahead, a chair slid out out of an open door and hit opposite wall, blocking her path. The footboard of a bed appeared from another door but was too big to fit all the way through.

When she reached the chair, Lynn splayed her hand on the wall for balance and shoved it away, then proceeded on, limping heavily; putting all of her weight on one foot was becoming too much and if she didn't hurry, she'd die in this blasted hallway totally lame.

The ship groaned again, the walls emitting a portentous creak. She hopped and almost sprawled again, but saved herself at the last second. Nervous energy filled her and she strained to keep from rushing headlong down the hall as fast as she could.

Momentarily, a green placard appeared on the wall: An arrow pointing down the way with the word STAIRS. Oh, thank God; she didn't know how much more fight she had in her.

The roar of water found her ears, and her step faltered. The stairs were just up ahead, once she got to them she'd be safe and this would all be over. Summoning all her strength, she hopped to the open threshold, only to sag in bitter defeat when she discovered that the stairs went down, not up. The roar was loud here, the water just out of sight. She started on but froze when a man rounded the corner and ascended toward her, his head down and his feet frantically pounding the treads. For a heart-stopping second, she thought it was the steward, but then he glanced up and to her relief she saw that he wasn't. From his clothes - dirty trousers, grimy, short-sleeved white shirt, and black smudged face - he was one of _Britannic's_ stokers, the very brave (or very stupid) men who shoved heavy loads of coal into the hot boilers. His features were twisted in fear and his movements were jerky and overwrought.

He saw Lynn but instead of stopping, he brushed past her and fled down the hall. She was so stunned by both his sudden advent and his callous disregard that her mind blanked. Recovering, she called out, a pleading edge in her voice. "Wait! Please don't leave me!"

His shoulders tensed and he came to a stop, half turning and favoring her with the wide, traumatized eyes of a man who has seen hell and would do anything to keep from seeing it again. He sucked great gulps of air and quivered as though he were in danger of exploding...or breaking and running away. "Please," Lynn begged, "m-my ankle, I-I can't." Articulating her predicament - even if in the vaguest of terms - somehow made it real, and in the the twinkling of an eye, she was so scared she could barely speak. "Please help me," she said, and her vision blurred with tears. "Please."

The stoker pursed his lips indecisively and shot a longing look over his shoulder, at safety. Sighing, he came reluctantly forward and Lynn let out a pent-up breath. "A-Alright, Miss, but we have to -" the words died on his lips when the lights flickered with a humming, electric buzz. Lynn's stomach dropped and the stoker's face paled. The lamps came back bright and strong, then dimmed considerably. The roaring was louder than ever, and the ship gave another long, low moan. The stoker sucked a sharp, fearful intake of breath, met Lynn's gaze...then turned and fled down the hall.

"Wait!" Lynn cried.

He didn't stop, didn't slow: Fifty feet, a hundred, then he ducked right and disappeared, presumably, up the stairs to the boat deck.

She was alone now.

A sob burst from her throat and tears threatened to overwhelm her. She leaned against the wall and took a deep breath.

Leaning against the wall, she dragged herself along the canted passage, her stomach knotting tighter and tighter and the roar swelled behind her; she imagined the entire ocean chasing her and lumbered quicker. A stitch twinged in her her side and her ankles both throbbed insistently. She was feet away from the bottom of the stairs when she stepped wrong and her good ankle turned sharply. Excruciation crackled up her leg and she screeched like a cat whose tail was being crushed under a coach wheel. Her knee gave out and spilled her forward; she threw up her hands, but didn't break the fall entirely; the floor slammed against her forehead and white agony filled her skull.

For a long moment she simply lay there, everything hurting, then, tentatively, she tried to get to her knees, but pain flared in both ankles and she dropped back to her stomach. The roar grew in volume, and, heart knocking, she hazarded a glance over her shoulder: Water gushed from the stairwell as if from a font and pooled along the low side of the corridor; more flowed from the vents and adding to the deluge, causing the level to rise with alarming speed. Long, creeping fingers quested across the floor, slowly but inexorably coming for her.

Something snapped inside of Lynn, and all the terror and panic she'd been fighting back since the sick ward crashed through her like a tidal wave. She let out a desperate scream and tried frantically to crawl away, her broken body inching over the cold tile like a worm trying to escape a hungry bird. When the first trickle of water touched her foot, she gave into her panic and screamed again, higher this time, longer, her throat ripping and the edges of her vision tingling gray. "Help me! Please, God, help me!"

Her voice echoed up and down the hall, but was drowned out by the awesome power of the sea.

* * *

Lincoln slapped his hands on top of the wing wall and peered over, his face a mask of English stoicism. White, simmering seawater gobbled _Britannic's_ bow, the final dry patch disappearing before his very eyes. She was keeling over to starboard much greater than to the front, and he distinctly felt the world shifting beneath his feet. Two promenade decks sat under the boat deck, and, swiftly, the waterline reached their starboard corners and began to spill over. To his right, the surface was gradually but steadily rising to meet the top deck, and to his left, the port wing lifted into the air. Slowly, she was rolling onto her side. They had only minutes.

If that.

Shoving away from the wall, he turned round and went over to where the three collapsibles waited, their bows facing the edge. His men stood dutifully by, their expressions somber but their resolve steeled; they'd conducted themselves with unimpeachable courage and were prepared to hang on until the last...he was proud of them. "She's going," he said, "when the surface comes flush, push them off."

The ship continued her sluggish dip, the sound of the ocean sweeping onto the lower decks like Judgement Day. A number of men remained onboard, a mixed lot of crew, stokers, and RAMC officers - some leapt over the side and dropped into the drink with splashes while others grimy waited for the sea to come closer. Lincoln went to the rail and looked down: The blue void was six feet from coming over, now five, now four.

Behind him, the whistle fixed to the forward funnel sounded, a long, honking blast rather like the mournful wail of a dying giant. Another followed: The order to abandon ship. Lincoln's heart missed a beat and he drew a deep, salty breath through his nostrils. He spared a glimpse over his shoulder, taking in, for perhaps the last time, the massive yellow smokestacks rising loftily against the heavens. He had not been on _Britannic_ very long, but in that time, he became fond of her, and seeing her die such an ignominious death affected him deeply.

Sighing, he cast his gaze to the boats: A dozen or more men had come over and climbed in, where they waited calmly for launch.

The bottom of the starboard wing box touched the surface of the water, and a quick look down revealed that less than three feet separated the ocean from his position. Captain Bartlett staggered out of the wheelhouse, the list here so great that the old man could barely keep his feet under him, and lifted a megaphone to his mouth. "Abandon ship!" he shouted, his amplified voice rolling up the deck like the word of God Himself.

Now the water sat even with the deck but did not yet lap over. Lincoln turned, went to the stern of one of the sparsely populated boats, and prepared to push, but froze when a faint sound drifted to his ears, much like...here he cocked his head...sobbing. He furrowed his brow and looked about, but could not discern the source. He dismissed it as imagination, but it came again, louder this time, a kneading, platative, and pitiful noise that could only be produced by a human being in great physical and spiritual peril. He stepped away from the boat and listened intently; when he heard it a third time, he left his station and walked slightly aft, coming to an open doorway just as the words "Help me!" issued forth. He braced his hands on either side of the frame and leaned in: A narrow set of stairs lead down to a dimly lit corridor.

Someone was trapped.

All worries for himself shrank to nothing, and without a second thought, he hurriedly descended the steps, his shoes splashing in inch high water at the bottom. The lights flickered and a long, phantom-like groan of tortured metal filled the passage. He cast about and started: A nurse lie prostrate in the middle of the floor, the sea rapidly closing over her.

Lincoln rushed over, and she pushed up on her hands, her head flopping back and wet, tangled brown hair covering her eyes. Even so, he recognized Lynn O'Rourke and a curious sensation cut through the pit of his stomach. Her posture was one of hysteria and the terrified scream she let out pierced Lincoln's soul like the icy blade of a knife.

Quickly recovering, he knelt beside her, water soaking through the knee of his trousers. Lynn shook violently and trembed a series of cracking sobs. The water was rising quickly and the ship gave an awful shudder, the groan deeper now, more pained; the lights cut out with a soft _zap_ , and they were plunged into darkness, the only light the feeble rays of the sun falling down the stairwell. Lynn wailed, and without a word, Lincoln scooped her up, holding her as a groom would his bride, her feet danging over one forearm and her head nestled protectively in the crook of the opposite elbow. The water rushed along the passageway, knee-high and pushing him toward the stairwell as if urging him on. Lynn's frame trembled against him, and, on instinct, he held her close to his chest like a mother holding her baby against the cold. He could just see the outline of her face in the ghostly light: Eyes squeezed shut, mouth puckered in a quivering grimace, features screwed up in dread expectation of pain, suffering, and death.

Were he a poetic man, Lincoln would have felt a strange and overpowering stir of devotion and responsibility in his chest - he may have vowed, to himself or aloud, that he would never let harm come to such a precious creature as Lynn O'Rourke, that he would go to the ends of the earth and move any mountain to wipe that heartbreaking look from her face and to dry the tears standing out on her cheeks like trails of silver. He was not a poetic man, however, so instead of pretty words or empty declarations, he simply ran, cradling her safely in his arms and fighting his way through the deepening surge in slow motion, lending the already nightmarish scene an even more sinister quality. Things clogged the swell, bobbing forlornly like damned souls in the deepest pit of hell: A wooden jewelry box, a woman's shoe, a suitcase with the cuff of a shirt sticking out like a lolling tongue. The latter bumped into his leg and he unthinkingly kicked it away, sending it sailing into the shadows.

It felt like an eternity before he reached the stairs, his progress hampered by the gathering water, but it couldn't have been more than a minute or two; the sea was already starting to gush down the steps at a trickle, reminiscent of a waterfall. For the first time since hearing Lynn's pleas for help, Lincoln's heart blasted - the ocean was claiming the deck and if he didn't hurry, they'd be trapped in _Britannic_ as she sank, a prospect that horrified Lincoln.

Holding Lynn tighter - the woman sobbed softly now, her face buried in his chest and her fingers clutching at the front of his coat - he rushed up, his head ducked and his shoulders squared as though he intended to ram through the sea like it were a man. At the top, water swept over the boat deck and consumed the starboard bridge wing: _Britannic_ was going down faster now, the sea overtaking her and flooding into the wheelhouse. The collapsibles were all fifty feet or more away and the water was rising rapidly; beneath his feet, the deck tilted sharply and went out from under him. For a second, he floated, then he found it again and righted himself. Men dove off the lifting stern and swam toward the boats and the eerie groaning was so loud Lincoln couldn't hear anything over it, not even the rushing sound of the ocean pulling _Britannic_ to the bottom.

They had to clear the ship before it went down or the suction would take them with it. Thinking fast, he slipped his coat off one arm at a time, never setting Lynn down, then tossed it aside: She stared at the sea. "Grab round my neck!" Lincoln yelled to be heard over the din. Lynn jerked her gaze to him, eyes wide with fright, but made no move to obey. "Put your arms around my neck!" he shouted again.

Gulping, she did, and Lincoln shifted her onto his back; without being told to, she hooked her legs over his hips and clung to him with fervent desperation. Again, the deck left him, and this time he threw himself forward and swam hard toward the boats laid up in the distance, passing a gantry davit as it slipped below the surface. Lynn held tight and trembled pitiably, her breathy whimpers filling his left ear and fueling him like coal to a boiler.

Behind them, _Britannic_ dipped forward and to the side, the stern rising higher and higher out of the ocean as water swept over the roof of the wheelhouse and the officers' quarters. Bodies continued dropping from both sides of the boat deck; people scrambled frantically across the poop to reach the lower starboard end, but some were forced to dive eighty feet or more from the higher port section. The sea closed over the forebridge until only the port wing box jutted up from the seething vortex, then that too disappeared. She was submerging briskly, the superstructure groaning under the stress of her swiftly increasing angle.

A loud report like a shot rang out, followed by another, and another, and another still. Lincoln looked over his shoulder just in time to see the last cable tethering the forward funnel snap; slowly, with a shriek of bending metal, it toppled over and splashed hard into the water. A wave displaced by the impact surged forward and shoved Lincoln away from the foundering vessel, his head momentarily dunking and Lynn's grip tightening. He arched his back to ensure that she didn't go under as well, then broke the surface with a gasp.

People thrashed and failed around him, some clinging to deck chairs and others swimming for it in a bid to escape the suction. Captain Bartlett embraced an unidentifiable piece of flotsam, his cap gone and the bald spot in the middle of his head laid bare for all the world to see. Lincoln looked back again to calculate the distance between them and _Britannic._ She was half down, clouds of smoke and steam exploding from the base of the second funnel. As he watched, riveted, the water reached it, and like the first, it too fell over. Lynn's grip started to slip, and Lincoln shifted. "Hold on," he said, "we're almost out." Indeed, one of the collapsibles stood less than twenty feet off, the men inside staring transfixed at the sinking liner.

Lincoln opened his mouth to call out, but a thunderous racket struck up behind him as the boilers tore loose and tumbled down to the bow, ripping through bulkheads and perhaps even the hull. One of the sailors sat up straighter and craned his neck to get a better view. Lincoln waved, and the man saw him, excitedly swatting the oarsman next to him and pointing at Lincoln.

He swam toward them, and it was only then that it dawned on him: He was going to live...and so would Lynn. Presently, the girl muttered the Lord's Prayer over and over again, so distraught that she stumbled over words and repeated herself. He became acutely aware of her slender arms about his neck and of the warm weight her body made against his back. "We're gonna be alright," he heard himself saying, "I promise, Lynn, we're alright."

Two seamen heaved the oars and pulled up alongside Lincoln. "Take her," he commanded. Three men leaned over the side, laid their hands on Lynn, and dragged her over the edge; her grip tightened on Lincoln in surprise, but she realized what was happening and let go. Once she was safely inside, the men pulled Lincoln up as well. It wasn't until he dropped against the side of the boat next to Lynn that he was completely drained, his muscles quivering like jelly and every joint aching with weariness. Lynn gazed off into space in a daze, then she hugged herself and started shaking, with cold or trepidation he didn't know...nor did he care. He scooted over and unthinkingly took her into his arms; she offered no resistance as he drew her to his chest, indeed, she melted into him like a woman in a comfortable chair...and then began to sob.

Lincoln pressed her head to his chest and stroked his fingers through her long, wet hair, a low _shhhhh_ passing his lips. His eyes were glued to _Britannic_ , which had paused on its descent, entirely on its side and reduced to fifty feet of stern, everything else having gone under. She groaned dangerously and seemed to have trouble settling. Being 882 feet long, her forward half most likely hit the bottom. The stern shook, trembled, and swung aimlessly back and forth, then, by degrees, it slid beneath the waves. The last Lincoln saw of it was the Union Jack on the very aft end: It flapped in the warm breeze to the very last.

Lynn clutched the front of his shirt and buried her face in his breast. He circled his arms protectively around her and looked at one of the seamen. "Captain Bartlett's over in that direction," he said and nodded off to the right. "Make to and pull him in."

"Aye, sir."

As the boat rocked and swayed in the swell, and as five men dragged the hatless captain in, Lincoln softly stroked Lynn's hair and stared at the spot where _Britannic_ made her grave.

He, too, could have gone to the bottom.

And though he never placed much value on his own life, that thought disturbed him.


	7. On the Isle of Kea

_**November 21. 1916**_

The first rescuers on the scene after _Britannic_ went down were Greek fishermen in their caïque, a type of double masted sailboat with a bowed frame. They set off from Kea after watching the drama unfold from a grassy bluff and arrived twenty minutes after the stern disappeared beneath the waves. They trowled the waters for nearly an hour, plucking men from the sea as though they were oversized bass, then returned to the island once they were full.

Twelve of those saved came from collapsible 3C, which had begun taking on water through a rip in one of its canvas walls: Among them were Captain A.C. Bartlett, wireless operators Jack Bride and Harold Phillips, Sixth Officer Lincoln Loud, and volunteer Nurse Lynn O'Rourke. The latter's left ankle was swollen and bruised, and she had to be lifted up in a sling; Bride had a nasty gash on his right arm where a snapping steel cable slashed him as he swam from the flooding deck; and an RAMC man Lincoln and three sailors took from the water lost consciousness shortly thereafter from a head wound he sustained leaping from the stern.

As the caïque made its way back to shore, the crewmen did their best to render aid, a proposition hampered by their inability to speak English. The language of the body is universal, though, and one wrapped a strip of cloth around Bride's arm whilst another covered the RAMC man with a blanket. Lynn sat near the stern of the small craft, her legs splayed before her in a V. Lincoln managed to communicate to one of the Greeks that she needed water, and when he returned, he handed the cup to Lincoln with a nod. "Here," Lincoln said and held it to the woman. She was wet and chilly despite the blanket around her shoulders, and had displayed little animation since she was taken aboard the collapsible. She stared into space, her features clenched and her skin pallid white.

"T-Thank you," she said and took the cup.

Lincoln watched her drink with a worried frown. The best thing to do with someone edging shock is keep them engaged, he'd learned. "That wasn't quite what I was expecting to do with my morning," he said archly and drew his knees to his chest. "It was rather exciting, though." A memory flashed before his eyes: Wright, his friend, being drawn into the blades, mortal terror on his face. Lincoln 's frown deepened and the words suddenly tasted bitter in his mouth.

She dropped the empty cup between her legs and hugged herself with shiver. "Would you like more blankets?" he asked.

Lynn shook her head. "N-No. I- I'm fine."

Across the deck, Phillips sat with his back against the rail, Bride beside him smoking a cigarette. "Did you ever heard anything?" Lincoln called.

Both men shook their heads at once. "No, sir," Bride responded, "we never got a reply. We stayed til the end, though."

Lincoln nodded. "Have you got an extra cigarette?"

Bride instantly produced a silver case from the inside of his jacket and opened it. Lincoln got to his feet and went over at a limp: His knees, like his back, elbows, shoulders, and everything else ached and quivered with weariness. "They survived," Bride said with a proud, lopsided grin. "This case deserves an award for keepin' 'em dry." He handed Lincoln a cigarette, and Lincoln nodded his thanks. "Do you need a light?"

Absently touching his trouser pockets, Lincoln felt the outline of his lighter and hummed. He could have sworn he had it in his jacket.

"Mine's wet," he said.

Phillips held out a lighter and Lincoln bent to touch the end of his cigarette to the flame. He drew the smoke in and let it out. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it, sir," Phillips said.

At stern once more, Lincoln sank next to Lynn and pulled one knee up. Kea was closer now, less than a mile off: From here he could make out a long, sandy strip of beach and a cluster of buildings off to the left. The land sloped back from the shore and formed a low, time-worn mountain, the ridgeline of which ran jagged along the sky. Another caïque glided past in the opposite direction, and Lincoln turned to watch it go. In the distance, lifeboats and pieces of wreckage dotted the sea, all of it gently lifting and falling with the rhythm of the swell. The HMHS _Britannic,_ originally built to run the shipping lanes between England and America, and constructed from the same set of plans as her sisters _Olympic_ and _Titanic_ , weighed 48 tons, stood 882 feet long and 175 feet from the keel to the top of her funnels, and contained nine passenger decks filled with furniture, medical equipment, boxes, cans, cups, plates, and the like...yet from the amount of flotsam she left behind, you'd think an old fishing tramp sank instead of the grandest ship alive.

When he first saw her at Southampton less than two weeks ago, he was taken with her sheer size. She seemed the biggest and most solid thing in the world; she towered over the rooftops along the wharf like a queen in response, and as he stood before her on the dock, he could scarcely chart her length. He would never have called her unsinkable as they did with _Titanic,_ not only because that mistake had been so recently made, but also because anything you put in the water can founder under the right circumstances. Man likes to fancy himself above nature, but never can never she be surmounted, nor can she be rendered moot. The prospect of such a massive vessel actually going down, however, seemed unlikely, especially given the modifications the builders made after the _Titanic_ disaster, when _Britannic_ was but a framework at the Harland and Wolff shipyard. It was always a possibility, but so is the sun not cresting over the rim of the world one morning, and if that occured, Lincoln would be surprised no matter how much he knew it could theoretically happen.

Though he was not religious, he passingly knew the story of Noah, the man whom God had build an ark to survive a worldwide flood. Noah, if Lincoln recalled, was not a shipbuilder, yet his vessel weathered the apocalypse. The _Britannic_ was crafted by the finest shipbuilders in the world, yet could not survive a mine no larger than a witch's pot-bellied cauldron. The irony was striking, if you asked him.

He watched the caïque skipping merrily across the sparkling blue surface for a moment longer, its sails full of wind like the hair of a beautiful woman, then turned back toward Kea, which had drawn even closer. He could see people on the shore now - their general profiles and not their finer features. He took a drag of his cigarette, held the smoke, then blew it out in a long plume. He glanced at Lynn, who stared down at her lap, and allowed his eyes to linger on the side of her face. Even with wet, tangled hair and shell-shocked eyes, she was lovely, and Lincoln's throat constricted with uncharacteristic nerves. "Would you like some?" he asked and held the cigarette out.

"Yes, please," she said, voice low and shaky. She took it in a rustle of fabric and brought it to her lips. Lincoln watched, then transferred his attention to the approaching coastline. A long wooden pier jutted out over the water, and a number of people crowded round the point where it met the beach, craning their necks curiously and jostling for position. Lincoln knew little about life on Greek islands, but he imagined that this was the most exciting thing to happen in months, if not years.

When he checked on Lynn, some color seemed to have returned to her face. "Just what the doctor ordered," he said and nodded to the cigarette.

"It calms the nerves," she declared.

"That it does," he agreed, "truth be told, I'm feeling a bit better myself. I don't think it would be out of line to say I was a touch worried there for a minute." He chuckled.

Lynn gave him the cigarette back and hugged herself again. "I was terrified," she said, her voice hollow and haunted. "I've never been so scared in my life."

He could imagine. He wouldn't say so because it wasn't very manly, but looking back, he could say the exact same thing. On deck, as the water came over the bow and inched up the hull, his emotion was one of suspense tinged, perhaps, with a hint of dread. Inside, with the water rapidly rising and the lights out, like a tomb, he was petrified, and had adrenaline not been surging through his veins, he may very well have crumbled. "I was quite afraid too," he allowed, "but it's over now." He looked to her ankle, the flesh tender and purple. "How did that happen?"

"I'd rather not talk about it," she mumbled. From the dawning look of apprehension in her eyes, he took it that whatever occurred below decks had caused her a great deal of distress. He dropped the matter and looked behind again just for something to do. In the distance, a warship steamed toward the site of the sinking from due west, smoke rising from its three funnels. Lincoln flicked his eyes to the mast and spotted the Union Jack. He turned to Bride and Phillips, who both watched the ship. "Looks like you got through after all."

"Seems that way, sir," Bride replied with a self-satisfied smile.

Presently, the caïque docked, the crew throwing out their lines and tying them round pylons. Lincoln got to his feet and stood aside while two of _Britannic's_ seamen carried off the wounded RAMC man. Phillips helped Bride to his feet and two men walked over to mill next to Lincoln. "How's the arm?" Lincoln asked Bride.

"It's fine, sir," Bride said dismissively, "just a flesh wound."

The arm of his coat was torn and the dressing so saturated with blood that it fell to the deck in fat droplets. He face appeared a tad peaked, but he bore it with stoic English dignity that Lincoln could not help but admire.

By this point, the crew were helping the other passengers onto the dock. Lincoln threw out the cigarette and turned to Lynn, who sat motionless. He started to scooped her up as he'd done on _Britannic,_ but, for some reason he couldn't fathom, doing so seemed...inappropriate. At least without her consent. "Would you like some help?" he asked, and the words sounded lame and strange to his ears.

"I certainly can't walk on my own," she muttered. No, she couldn't, not with the wound to her foot. He bent down and picked her up, one arm braced against her back and the other under her knees. She hooked her arm around his neck, and the warm closeness of her body made his heart beat far quicker than nearly sinking with _Britannic_ had. A rosy tint crept into her cheek and she pointedly looked away.

Lincoln carried her across the deck and to the rail. Several men on the pier held their arms out, and he passed her over. She shot him a stricken look, and it may have been wishful thinking on Lincoln's part, but he thought that she wanted to stay with him. "There you go," he told her and flashed a tight smile, "on to what passes for a hospital around here."

Anxiety touched her eyes, then she was being ushered away. Lincoln's chest twinged with inexplicable loss and he watched her go with a rush of disappointment. He heaved a deep breath and let it out as evenly as he could. He recalled the feel of her arms around him as he swam for their lives, the feeling of her body pressed against his, her breath in his ear, and something akin to shame burned the nape of his neck. It was a rescue, not a bloody date, yet he couldn't say he didn't wish it was. The memory of Wright and the others being diced in the blades came next, and his sense of shame intensified.

Philips and Bride disembarked next, Phillips assisting his wounded comrade then climbing onto the pier himself. Lincoln shook his head like a man ascending from a dream and, grabbing one of the pylons, pulled up onto the dock - he stumbled at the alien feeling of not moving. There is much talk about getting one's sealegs, but very little about a man with sealegs having to regain his land legs every time he leaves the water. It was something of a culture shock, one that you fully expect but cannot transcend even so.

The last man to leave the caïque was Captain Bartlett, his sodden coat slung over one arm and his white shirt unbuttoned to the throat. Lincoln held out his hand and dragged the old man onto the pier. "Thank you, Mr. Loud," he said, then, "did you get many of the boats off?"

"A half dozen or so," Lincoln said instantly. "Two were sucked into the blades."

Bartlett nodded grimly. "What happened?"

"I put them in the water as we were making toward land but kept the lines on. Someone inside took it upon themselves to cut them off." As he spoke, images of the carnage wrought by the propellers battered him from every side, and his stomach churned with nausea.

The Captain sighed heavily and looked away. "How many were killed?"

"I can't say, sir," Lincoln replied, and the shame he felt earlier came back tenfold. As the officer in charge of those boats, he was culpable for what happened. He was the one who had them set in the sea and not suspended above, where the temptation to cast off would have been discouraged. He hadn't much time to contemplate the matter given the circumstances, but now, ashore and free from the shadow of death, he reckoned he would contemplate nothing else. "I take full responsibility," he said. "I should have done differently."

Bartlett considered for a moment then sighed again. "No, I'm to blame." He looked out to sea, and a warm gust of salt scented wind ruffled his thinning black/gray hair. The ship sat two miles out, the boats making toward her. The chanting whisper of the sea lapping at the shore and the cry of gulls underscored the tropical scenery. "Trying to ground her was foolish. It could have been done but there was extensive damage to the drive shaft. I ran the engines harder on one side to compensate, but it didn't work...and still I kept on." He turned away from the sea. "I didn't want to let her go, Mr. Loud. I loved her as I love my own wife and I did everything I could to save her." Emotion stole into the old man's voice, and Lincoln suddenly felt uncomfortable at his captain's candor. "She's gone now and it was all for naught."

Several minutes passed before he spoke again, and Lincoln stood dutifully by. "Let's go then, we need to assess the damage."

* * *

The village of Loulida occupied a steep hillside facing the channel, its narrow, cobblestone streets presided over by white stucco buildings with red terracotta roofs, the town's uniformity unbroken save for size, some structures being much larger than others. A rutted dirt road between two grassy mounds provided access; glimpsed from the back of a horse-drawn carriage, it was easy to imagine that the place looked no different now than it had three hundred years ago. Upon reaching it, the road curved up and eventually turned to stone. Lincoln spotted a crowded open air market at the base of the hill, and a number of animals - chickens, pigs, dogs, and mules - moved ungoverned through the lower warrens. He craned to see the cart ahead and spotted Lynn sitting next to a fat, kerchiefed old woman clad in a plain floral dress. He desperately hoped Lynn would turn and see him, but she did not, and he gave up, sitting back against the wall of the carriage with a sigh.

In the middle, the injured RAMC man lay stretched stiffly out, a ratty wool blanket covering his face. He died before they set off from the dock, slipping quietly into the hereafter, living one moment and dead the next, reminding Lincoln uncomfortably of Wright and the others. His name, one of the others said, was Sgt. Copperfield, which put Lincoln in mind of that Dickens novel he'd never read.

Across from him, Bride clutched his arm and stared ahead with strained intensity, his face devoid of blood. When the wooden tires hit a rut, the carriage jumped and a look of pain crossed his haggard countenance. Beside the hurt wireless man, Philips languidly smoked a cigarette, and next to _him,_ Captain Bartlett gazed down the winding tract leading behind them, the sun dappled sea just visible over a grassy knoll. The warship sat where it had for the past twenty minutes, the ocean around it dotted with boats, some of them empty and others full. A Greek man who spoke very broken English named Anastas sat with his back to them and his legs dangling over the side; he wore a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of brown trousers with worn knees; a straw hat covered his head, its brim casting his thin, swarthy face in shadows. From what he said, they were being taken to the town hospital. Bartlett ordered Lincoln and Phillips to go to the telegraph office to get in touch with the battleship via wireless once they'd taken a headcount and knew the number and names of survivors.

The carriage turned onto a street slanting up past quaint storefronts, and Lincoln intently watched the people moving along the sidewalk, none turning to look as the cart passed. He knew very little about the Greeks, but he'd heard that they were an ill-tempered people much like the Italians, and was ware of dealing with them. The ones he'd met so far seemed right enough sorts, but,to be fair, it's hard to be surly and not feel pity for someone after taking them from the water.

Presently, the carriage turned up another street, this one steeper and wider than the last, and arrived at the hospital, a long, one story building fronted by wavering palms. A team of doctors and nurses waited by the steps, and as soon as the first carriage stopped, Lynn was loaded onto a stretcher and whisked inside, followed closely by an RAMC man with a broken leg: Lincoln pulled him from the water just before the boat began to take on water. He wounded it, he said, when he jumped from the roof of the port bridge and struck one of the gantry davits.

A doctor in a white coat appeared and the man in the straw hat spoke to him in Greek, pointing at the covered body then at Bride. The doctor nodded and motioned for them to get out. Lincoln waited for the others, then slipped past the corpse and jumped down. The hospital sat on the summit of Loulida, the settlement marching down the hillside in ranks, smoke rising from a forest of chimneys and the smell of vegetation dense in the air. To the right, rolling hills kept eternal watch over the sea. A second warship had joined the first, and they sat moored across from each other.

Inside, the hospital was surprisingly modern, with tile floors and plain brown walls. A portrait of King Constantine I, a slight, bald man with a thick mustache, hung in the lobby area, and a large cross stood in a corner. Like the Italians, the Greeks were religious to the point of superstition, a trait Lincoln found taxing.

Despite his protests, the doctors lead him to a ward for examination along with the other men, Lynn, apparently, having been taken elsewhere. Much like the wards on _Britannic,_ this one was composed of two long, facing rows of beds. Lincoln was directed to one and sat with a sigh, his arms and legs crossing impatiently. He wanted to see Lynn as soon as possible - to make sure she was alright.

Fifteen excruciating minutes later, another doctors, this one balding and sporting eyeglasses, came in, a clipboard in his hand. His first stop was the bed where Bride and Phillips sat together, Phillips refusing to leave his comrade's side until he was taken care of. Bride held a cloth to his arm - given him by a nurse but already soaked with blood - and spoke through his teeth. The doctor peeled it away, checked it, and said something in richly accented though perfectly understandable English. He went down the line and checked on the others while Bride was escorted out by a nurse and another doctor, Phillips looking after withdrawing concern.

When the doctor finally reached Lincoln, he asked, "Are you hurt?"

"No," Lincoln said, "I'm quite fine. Might I inquire -?"

Before Lincoln could finish, the doctor turned and went to the next bed over, where Captain Bartlett said with his hands in his lap. The doctor asked him the same question, and after getting an answer in the negative, he hurried out of the room. Lincoln felt a flush of outrage, but reminded himself that there were wounded men in more need of attention. Even so, he very much wanted to know whether Lynn was alright or not. He was no doctor, but her ankle was bad off the last he saw iit, and from what little he knew, bad appendages were sometimes cut clean off the body.

The prospect of Lynn O'Rourke's precious foot being cleaved off like so much deadwood sent a ripple of dread through his stomach. That something so ethereal, so delicate, could ever be damaged further proved to Lincoln that no caring God waited in heaven, for what craftsman would willingly allow such an exquisite creation harm? Why, he'd have to be a madman.

Or evil.

He went back to the look in her eyes when they parted and suddenly wished that he hadn't let them become separated. The poor girl had been through so much today and needed someone to be there for her. He started to go to her, but Bartlett's voice stayed him. "I want a headcount taken as soon as possible," he said, "and when you get in touch with the ships, find out if the other officers made it off."

Lincoln couldn't care less about the other officers, but he'd never been one to shirk his duty, and right now, in the face of adversity, he wasn't about to start. He nodded, said "Aye, sir," and went about his task, procuring a clipboard, several sheets of paper, and a pencil from the front desk. Lynn plagued his mind as he drew a line down the center and divided the page into two columns, one marked CREW and the other PASSENGERS. She wouldn't tell him what happened to her on _Britannic,_ and he had to wonder _why_. He did not know her very well, so he couldn't say if she was intensely private by default, but looking into her limpid brown eyes on the caïque, he got the distinct impression that it must have been unspeakable. Or perhaps he was thinking too deeply about the matter. The foundering must have been keenly traumatic for her, being trapped below decks, robbed of her movement, the water rising around her and the ghastly realization that she was going to drown like a rat stealing over her...God, thinking of it made Lincoln sick.

Back in the ward, he had everyone line up at the foot of each bed as they were able and quickly jotted down the names he knew:

C. BARTLETT - CAPTAIN

L. LOUD - SIXTH OFFICER

J. BRIDE - WIRELESS OPERATOR

H. PHILLIPS - WIRELESS OPERATOR

Then, in the passenger column: LYNN O'ROURKE. Abbreviating her name struck Lincoln as wrong, and even though he frowned at the notion, he wrote it out anyway.

Starting on the right, he went down the ranks like a general reviewing his troops. "Name?" he asked a lad with red hair: He wore a brown RAMC uniform that was still damp from the kiss of the Aegean. "Paul Isted, sir" he said. "Royal Army Medical Corps."

Lincoln moved onto another man, this one older and wearing a similar uniform. "Name?"

"William Shears. RAMC."

Jotting that down, Lincoln went to the next man. At the end of it all, there were fifty-two names on the page, both front and back, the majority of them RAMC. Lincoln tallied them up, wrote the number at the top, then, remembering the body in the carriage, he added, at the very bottom: SGT. COPPERFIELD, RAMC, DECEASED.

He hoped to see Lynn before he and Phillips went to the telegraph office, but Captain Bartlett wanted them to leave at once. Mr. Anastas, who rode with them from the beach, lead the way, and they followed him down a steep street from the hospital. As they went, the Greek tried, in his broken English, to give them a tour of the town, mentioning the presence of ancient ruins in the hills to the north. Lincoln's interest was piqued and he asked after them. "They...old...and...and beautiful." He pointed vaguely to the east, where low, grassy foothills rolled back from the craggy bluffs like frozen waves.

On the way, people streamed by on either side, and more of them than not turned to look, their expressions ranging from mild surprise to deep distrust. Greeks, even those as remote as the ones on Kea, were familiar with white men, Lincoln assumed, but they were not an everyday sight. He tried to ignore the discomfort stirring in his stomach and turned to Phillips like a man to a life preserver; his was the only pale face in sight, and it brought Lincoln a measure of reassurance.

Staring ahead, the wireless man nervously chewed his bottom lip, no doubt fretting over his friend's condition: The last Lincoln saw of Bride, he was sitting on a table in an office, bearing down hard on his teeth as a doctor with a cigarette jutting from his lips sewed the gash in his arm closed; his face was clenched in pain his chest heaved with the effort of his breathing. Lincoln had stitches himself several times over the years, and they hurt more than the wounds that necessitated them. "He'll be fine," Lincoln said in an effort to cheer Phillips up. "Those bloody stitches hurt like hell, though."

Phillips spared him a quick glance and gave a stiff, jerky nod. "Right," he agreed curtly. "I just...I worry. Cuts like that are so blamed easy to get infected."

That wasn't wrong - they were. "I'm sure if it does, the doctor will get him right as rain. Have you known him long?"

"Fifteen years," Phillips said and flashed a warm grin, "we grew up next door to each other in Devonshire. He got me the job with Marconi. Said he wanted a man he could count on and not a blasted fool." He chuckled airily. Like most ship bound wireless operators, Phillips and Bride worked for the Marconi Wireless Telegraph Company and were not proper members of the crew.

"Sounds like you two are close," Lincoln commented.

Philips nodded. "Yes, sir, very. He's like a brother to me."

Mr. Anastas turned down a side street that angled down the hill: Clotheslines laden with shirts, bloomers, and other articles of dress overhung the way, and an old woman leaned out of an open second story window to yell at someone in the house across from hers. Heaps of garbage littered the walk, and the stench of rotting food, strange and unappetizing cooking odors, and other, less nameable things assaulted Lincoln's nostrils. He spotted a man sitting on a stoop and swaying back and forth as if battered by a nonexistent wind; when he sat the bottle between his legs, he understood.

God, it was Whitechapel all over again.

A cold draught of air blew through Lincoln's soul, and his heartbeat picked up. In his time, and now for all he knew, London's East End was a city of iniquity on par with Sodom, its opium dens, clandestine gambling houses, brothels, and pubs teeming with the most reprehensible assortment of whoremasters, drunkards, pickpockets, con men, prostitutes, killers, and human scum imaginable. The streets were dirty, the people poor, and the alleyways home to gangs of urchins who'd swarm you like ants, beat you bloody, and take anything of value you possessed. He despised that crowded, stinking place, and the street he currently trod reminded him so much of it that he might as well have been back there, ten and digging through the refuse for scraps of food because his mother couldn't be bothered to waste her ill-gotten shillings on anything that wasn't alcohol.

He always said that, in place of going to hell, he'd die and wake up in Whitechapel; now he was questioning whether he actually made if off _Britannic_ or not.

The telegraph office was in a corner building with narrow windows and mezzanine. A Greek flag hung from a pole over the door, blue and white stripes with a blue field containing a white cross.

Reminiscent of Whitechapel or not, Lincoln was surprised by Loulida's moderndernity. The only places in Greece he'd been were the major seaports, and he believed, mistakenly it would seem, that the rest of the country was rustic and backwards, existing in a Hellenic vacuum and lacking power, running water, and telegraphy.

Inside, a counter stood before the far wall, which was a dark yellow color and covered in papers held in place by pushpins. The air was dry and stale with no circulation, and the electric _tap-tap-tap_ of the wireless machine instantly wormed its way into the center of Lincoln's skull, making him wince. The three of them approached, and Lincoln spied a man bent over the apparatus, one hand covering the piece over his left ear and his finger depressing the little arm of the device with blinding speed. He wore black trousers and a black vest over a white shirt accented by a black tie. When he turned, he revealed himself to be young and fairly handsome, about twenty-five with soft features, bronze skin, and a sweep of unruly black hair. He darted his eyes between them, then removed the headphones and got up, crossing to the counter and splaying his fingers on the surface.

He and Mr. Anastas exchanged a few words in Greek, and Lincoln could barely suppress his annoyance at not being able to understand what they were saying. Mr. Anastas turned to Phillips and said, "He say you take over and talk to ships. They waiting for you."

Phillips nodded, and the telegraph operator gestured him to the machine. Phillips went through the half door flanking the counter. Lincoln realized he was still holding the clipboard, and passed it to the telegraph operator.

While Phillips communicated with the two ships moored off Kea (the _HMS Scourge_ and the _HMS Heroic_ ), Lincoln waited in the antechamber, first scanning the fliers and posters pinned to the corkboard - not that he could read them - then sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair with his head hung and his hands clasped between his knees. It was well past noon, and his clothes - black pants, white shirt (sleeves rolled up owing to the heat) and black tie - had dried, save for his socks. As he waited, his thoughts turned toward Lynn O'Rourke, lying abed in the hospital on the hill, perhaps alone and afraid, surrounded only by brown people who did not speak her language and who gave their company because they had to, not because they genuinely _wanted_ to.

And Lincoln very much wanted to be with her.

For a while, Mr. Anastas sat with him and they attempted conversation. Apparently, he was the first one to notice _Britannic's_ distress. A farmer who lived south of town, he was out walking in the grass along the bluffs when he spotted the doomed liner steaming through the channel and getting lower all the time. He rushed into town and alerted a group of men at the town pub, and they followed him back to the cliff. Unbeknownst to them, the telegraph office received the distress call, and the operator contacted the local police, who, in turn, rounded up a team of boatsmen to sail out and render assistance. By the time they set off, _Britannic_ was gone.

"We...never saw such...amazing...thing," Mr. Anastas said haltingly, a touch of reverence in his voice. Lincoln wouldn't call it amazing - tragic, perhaps, or even horrid - but he understood the awe watching it go down must have inspired in them. The brief glimpses he caught of it foundering as he swam away awakened those same feelings in _him:_ Astonishment, quaking dread, and a sense of dark, looming wonder.

Just before 1:30, Mr. Anastas took his leave, and Lincoln was alone in the waiting room, kept company only by the telegraph operator, who bent over the counter reading from a newspaper. People came in occasionally to send or receive telegrams, but the man turned them away with a forestalling hand and words in Greek that Lincoln assumed amounted to _The line is busy, you'll have to come back later._

Lincoln waited dutifully yet restlessly as the afternoon dragged on. By 3, the size and scope of the _Britannic_ disaster was known. Of 1,065 souls onboard, an even thirty perished or were missing, a far smaller number than Lincoln would have guessed. 1,500 went down with _Titanic_ and 1,200 with _Lusitania_ \- the thirty deaths on _Britannic_ were each a tragedy, to be sure, but the toll could have been far, far higher, and Lincoln was relieved to hear that it wasn't.

If he were a religious man, he'd call it a miracle, but he was not, so instead, he called it a spot of luck.

A rather large spot of luck.

* * *

Weak, amber sunlight streamed through the big windows along the empty maternity ward, bathing the drab brown walls in a reddish hue. Sitting up in bed, Lynn commanded a sweeping view of the town, the hills to the east, and the shimmering sea beyond. It was a truly beautiful sight, but in the all the hours she'd been here, she hadn't looked at it once - her eyes stared but did not see, her mind registered, but did not process. The shock, if shock it was, had worn off, and she was alone with her thoughts.

That morning, she came within moments of death, though she was safe now, having had the Reaper pass so close by sent cold shivers through her soul. If she dwelled, she would find herself back in the dark, the water rising over her, bare inches from her face, and ghostly moans drifting up and down the passageway like the voices of the dead welcoming her to their bosom. Her chest would grow tight and her heart begin to slam in fear; the walls would begin to seem closer, like the sea in that tomb of a ship, and the air would turn thick as water, filling her lungs and drowning her. The only thing that saved her from descending into hysteria was the memory of her salvation - of looking up and beholding _his_ face, of being swept into his strong arms and sprinted away from that awful place, cradled to his breast like a child. Recalling the warmth and safety she felt in his embrace, she would calm, and the walls would recede, the band around her heart loosen.

She wished he would come to her with a bitter keenness that rather surprised her. She fancied him and had since their first meeting, but the longing in the pit of her stomach seemed too sharp, too needful. She did not fight it, however, nor did she try to _tough it out_ as one might say; she'd given in and allowed herself to openly want his presence.

Presently, she lingered her mind on the memory of clutching him as he swam them away from _Britannic._ At the time, she was gripped with panic and thinking only of survival, but now, she relished the sensation of his powerful body flexing beneath her and the outline of his muscles under her hands. She'd never held a man like that and the recollection stirred her as a poker stirs embers in a grate.

With a sigh, she scanned all the beds facing her, each one empty save to the last on the far end: A woman lay propped against a heap of pillows, her sweaty black hair hanging in her face and her brown skin possessing a pallid hue that bespoke strain and illness. When the doctors brought Lynn to the ward, the woman was locked in the throes of labor, head thrown back, legs spread, cries bursting from deep in the back of her throat. A doctor and a team of nurses worked over her, and Lynn couldn't help but spectating. She assisted with the delivery of a baby on _Britannic_ , and seeing the advent of a new life was both strange and beautiful at the same time, and awoke feelings in her that she could not quite name.

The baby was born just before three and taken away so that the mother could rest. The last time Lynn designed to look at her, she was fast asleep, her head lolling to one side and her body limp with exhaustion, now she was awake, her dark eyes flickering suspiciously between Lynn and the wall ahead of her.

Drawing a deep breath, Lynn turned back to the windows: The sun sat just over the sea, its rays spreading across the water as though it were melting. Cool, purple shadows had begun to pool in the corners and the light withdrew by degrees, the fire leaving ash in its wake. Lynn reached over and turned the bedside lamp on, warm, muted glow casting a feeble pallor around her station. When she settled back into the pillows, she caught a flash of movement from the corner of her eye and turned her head just as Lincoln came in. Her heart leapt and her breath caught painfully in her throat. He wore what was left of his uniform: Black trousers, white shirt with the cuffs rolled up, and a black tie loosened around the throat. He looked uncertainly about, then spotted her, and the corners of his lips turned slightly up in a warm, heartfelt smile that made Lynn's stomach flutter. She returned the smile and fought the urge to look demurely away.

He came over and stood next to the bed in that proper way of his - chest out, chin up, hands clasped behind his back. A retreating ray of sunshine caressed his handsome face and bathed it in a heavenly glow like a good omen. "You look much better," he said without preamble.

"I am, thank you," Lynn said through her smile, unable, and unwilling now, to take her eyes off of him. If possible, he was taller than she remembered, and more solid, like a mighty oak.

He nodded to her foot. "How is your ankle?"

Lynn shrugged one shoulder. "It's been better. Hurts like the dickens." She let out a girlish laugh, and Lincoln chuckled genuinely.

"Is it broken?" he inquired.

She shook her head. "Just a sprain. The doctor says I should be up and about shortly." She realized she was nervously twisting the blanket in her hands and forced herself to stop.

"That's brilliant," he said, an impressed hilt to his voice, and though she'd done nothing deserving of praise, she felt a rush of pride and satisfaction nevertheless. "I trust you're well otherwise?"

"I am," she said, then heard herself hesitantly add, "for the most part." She did not intend to mention or even allude to her anxiety over the wreck, but once she spoke, it dawned on her that she _wanted_ to talk about it, and she wanted it to be only to him.

Lincoln nodded understandingly. "Given the circumstances, I suppose that's the best one can hope for." He looked around then back to Lynn. "Would you terribly mind some company? It seems a bit lonely here." Lynn fancied she heard a slight nervous tremor in his voice, as though he were afraid to ask that of her.

"I wouldn't mind at all," she said. In fact, at that moment, she wanted nothing more.

Pulling up a chair, Lincoln sat at her right and laid his hands on his lap, his back ramrod straight and his broad shoulders squared. "I meant to come sooner, but I couldn't get away," he said. "I feel I've been doing more work on land than I did on ship."

"That's quite alright," Lynn said, and her heart raced as she considered adding something else. She nearly decided against it, but the kind light in his eyes pushed her on. "I was hoping you'd come, though."

Lincoln's body tensed almost imperceptibly and his brows lifted just so. His smile grew a little and he glanced down at his lap like a shy girl, which Lynn found only endearing. "I assure you, I planned to come all along," he said.

Swallowing a giggle, Lynn shifted to face him better, and a dull ache shot up her leg. She hissed, and an expression of concern crossed Lincoln's face. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she said, "moving hurts."

"Then don't move," he said seriously.

Lynn sighed. "I've not been moving all day. It's starting to drive me batty."

"I can imagine," Lincoln said, "but moving will only complicate your healing. You must remain still."

"Perfectly still?" Lynn asked playfully.

A glint crept into Lincoln's eye. "Yes. Perfectly still."

Lynn didn't move.

"You're breathing," Lincoln pointed out.

Lynn held her breath.

"Atta girl," Lincoln grinned, "hold that for several days and you'll do splendidly."

Lungs bursting for air, Lynn stared at him...then sucked a great, gulping breath and laughed merrily, Lincoln laughing with her. "I don't think I'll manage that," Lynn said gaily, "I suppose I'll just have to adjust to being lame."

"In that case, I'll simply have to push your chair," Lincoln said, and the implication of his words hung heavy in the air between them. To Lynn, it meant that he would be there for her as he had on _Britannic_. She hardly knew him in the grand scheme of things, but she rather liked that idea, which scared and gladdened her at the same time. What was she doing feeling this way for a man she'd met only twice, and fleetingly at that? She did not know...but it felt nice, and she had not felt nice for a very long time.

Changing the subject, she said, "I-I should thank you. For saving me." She tried to say something more, but a lump of emotion welled in her throat. As she lay on her stomach in the ever rising water, the lights dimming around her and the roar of the sea overtaking the ship in her ears, she was certain that she was going to die, and she'd never been more frightened in her life, not even when the steward had her pinned against the wall with his hand round her throat.

Lincoln shifted his weight as though her gratitude made him uncomfortable. "I was just doing what anyone would," he assured her.

"No," Lynn said, an image of the stoker's face flashing across her mind, "you were very brave and I'm grateful." Lincoln's cheeks turned a very faint shade of red that may have been the doing of her imagination - either way, it was a very good look on him. "You were like a knight in shining armor."

That made both of them laugh heartily, Lynn in a mixture of embarrassment and happiness and Lincoln in surprise. "I'd hardly call myself that," he said. "Especially the bit about the armor. It rusts, you know; not optimal attire for sea travel."

"I like your suit just fine," Lynn said, feeling a little bolder. "It's a shame you have to leave your jacket on the ship."

Reaching into his hip pocket, Lincoln tilted his head to one side as if to say _eh, it was an old jacket anyway,_ and took out a pack of cigarettes with Greek writing across the front. "The real shame is that my cigarette case was in the pocket," he said and took one from the pack. "These are passable, but they're not Woodbines." He rolled it between his thumb and index finger and gave it a long, thoughtful look edged with distaste. Lynn unconsciously brushed her teeth across her bottom lip, her eyes zeroing in on it - it'd been hours since she had one, and though she hadn't craved one before, she sure did now.

He held it out, and she took it, her middle finger inadvertently brushing his knuckle. Her heart skipped a beat, and his knowing grin made her stomach flutter. "Thank you," she smiled. He produced a silver lighter, flipped the top, and sparked the wheel - a tiny flame winked into life, and Lynn leaned the end of her cigarette into it, pulling the smoke deep into her lungs with a heady rush that felt almost as nice as the warmth in her chest. As she pulled away, she caught a glimpse of three letters engraved into the face of the lighter. L.T.L. Taking the cigarette between her fore-and-middle fingers, she nodded to his hand. "Are those your initials?"

Lincoln turned it around and studied it as though he hadn't the faintest idea what she was talking about. "Yes," he said, "Lincoln Thomas Loud."

She reached into her dress - a simple, baggy white affair with no sleeves provided by the hospital - and pulled out her locket. "I have this," she said and carefully opened it. Lincoln bent closer and she held it up so he could see. "My initials are in it as well." She smiled slyly and her face blushed light red. "I don't like them," she said.

Lincoln arched his brow quizzically. "Why not?" he asked.

Outside, the final light of day drained from the sky and soft, purple twilight took its place, stars twinkling in the darkening heavens like diamonds on blue velvet. Lynn's blush deepened. "My middle name is Olivia."

Confusion filled Lincoln's limpid brown eyes. "Alright. That's a very lovely name, why be ashamed of it?"

Lynn felt neither here nor there about her middle name, but him complimenting it that way brought a happy smile to her lips. "My initials," she patiently explained, "are L.O.O."

He still didnt seem to understand, and Lynn rolled her eyes. "Loo," she said in hushed tones, as though speaking indecorously. "As in the place where one does their business."

Understanding dawned on and snickered to himself. "That never would have occured to me. I suppose you heard that in school?"

Oh, did she. She heard even more about her lazy eye, though, and to this day it was a sore subject with her. Having served under Nurse Forsythe for a year, however, she'd learned to take it better than she did when she was a girl: Then, the taunts made her cry, now they only made her _feel_ like crying. "They made fun of it, yes," she said simply and took a puff of her cigarette.

Lincoln put one between his lips and lit it. "Schoolchildren are monsters," he pronounced, then shoved the lighter back into his pocket. "I never heard the end of it. They called me _white hair_ and _Father Time."_

The Father Time bit, and the cool, unaffected way he related it, struck Lynn as deliciously funny, and she laughed so hard her ankle throbbed; the contrived frown he donned only made her laugh harder. "I'm glad _you_ find it amusing," he said around the filter of his cigarette. "I still wake in a cold sweat."

"I'm sorry," Lynn said, sobering. "Children might be monsters but they can be clever at times." She tipped her ash onto the floor and couldn't stop herself looking at his head. She couldn't say she'd ever seen a man (or woman) his age with white hair. It was unique. "Is there a reason for it?" she asked curiously. "A condition?"

He shook his head slowly. "Not that I know of. Perhaps to do with pigmentation or some other such."

"I like it," she said, "it's unusual."

Lincoln seemed pleased with himself. "It _is_ out of the ordinary," he allowed. "I've come to terms with it. Makes me easy to pick out of a crowd."

"That's a good way to look at it," Lynn said. "Looking on the bright side is important."

"Indeed it is," he said, "even the most terrible of situations often have a saving grace." He met and held her gaze, and she smiled.

"Yes," she said, "I suppose it does."

Later, after he left, she laid back against the pillows and drew a deep, contented breath. Though he was gone, she was very pleased that he came to see her, and their conversation, which occupied nearly two whole hours, left her feeling warm and good.

She was very much looking forward to tomorrow.


	8. Coming Around

**Malcolm7281: I've never heard that before, but it made me laugh. I can see where it came from, though. Certainly with so many wounded men under their care, at least some must have been tempted to steal things.**

* * *

 _ **November 22, 1916**_

Lincoln Loud woke at half past ten on the morning of the 22nd, shockingly late for a man accustomed to rising no later than eight.

The private room he shared with Captain Bartlett occupied the far corner of the hospital and faced the sea: If you stood at the window, you would have a majestic view of the town, the hills, the channel, and the Isle of Makronisos beyond. The previous night, after trying but failing to sleep, Lincoln sat in the sill and smoked as he gazed at the moon above. Captain Bartlett had trouble dropping off as well; he sat up in bed reading by soft lamplight. They spoke a bit here and there, but neither was a particularly talkative sort and most of their time together was characterized by silence. Both had a great deal on their mind - Bartlett the recent loss of a ship under his command and Lincoln Lynn, the beautiful Irishwoman in the maternity ward whose lightly accented voice, bright eyes, and breathtaking smile bewitched and enchanted him. He was taken with her before their talk that evening, but after, he was downright captivated - she was as intelligent, good-natured, and engaging as she was fair, and every thought of her sent his stomach clutching sharply. He left her only with great and mournful reluctance, and ever since, he'd thought of nothing else: Not _Britannic,_ not Wright, naught but her and the queer feelings she awoke in him. He hesitated to use the word love, as he'd never felt it and had not a clue how to identify it, but he wondered.

This...sensation, for lack of a better term, was strange, intimidating, and bloody exciting all at once. He'd never experienced it before and he rather enjoyed it...though like every Great Unknown, it aroused disquiet. He could brave any storm or disaster the sea could thrust upon him, but notions of love frankly scared him - it was much like being in over your head and not knowing how to swim. If he had a better foundation, he imagined, he would feel more prepared, but he did not; his mother did not love him (or else she had a funny way of showing it) and he'd never known a woman long enough to feel even the faintest stir of genuine feeling. He still didn't know Lynn overly well, but he knew her enough to know that she was lovely in every way a woman can be.

Finally, well past one in the morning, after Captain Bartlett retired for the night, Lincoln smoked his final cigarette and held court with the face of the Greek moon. The moon, he'd come to realize, was very much like him - distant, above it all, but always observing. But even she, the great orb of the night, had the love of the stars, while he had only himself.

As he climbed into bed and pulled the cover over his chest, the familiar touch of loneliness closed round his chest, and he drew a labored breath. He did not let himself meditate on the matter often, because when he did, it depressed him, but tonight, he could not stop it, and it came like the tide. He lapsed into a thin and restless slumber shortly thereafter, and knew no more until the orange rays of the morning sun fell warmly across his face.

Captain Bartlett was not in evidence, and Lincoln was alone save for the white curtains, fluttering in the arid breeze. Lincoln got up and dressed in a change of clothes donated by one of the local farmers - blue denim trousers, a blue button down shirt one size too large, and a scuffed pair of wing-tipped shoes that Lincoln imagined were worn only on formal occasions.

Leaving the room, he made his way to the ward and found Captain Bartlett talking with Bride, who sat abed with his right arm in a sling. He didn't see Phillips, which meant he was probably at the telegraph office. The _Scourge_ and _Heroic_ both set off the previous afternoon for the port of Piraeus, the former with 339 _Britannic_ survivors and the latter with 494. The light cruiser _HMS Foxhound_ arrived at 11:45, swept the area for any remaining survivors or bodes (claiming three dead men from the water), then anchored for a bit before continuing on her way. Another ship was being sent to pick up the survivors on Kea, but wouldn't be along for several days, which left Lincoln and the others with little to do but wait.

When Lincoln walked up, Captain Bartlett glanced at him. "Good morning, Mr. Loud."

"Good morning, sir," Lincoln nodded, "Mr. Bride. How's your arm?"

Bride flashed a tired smile. After getting back from the telegraph office yesterday, Lincoln's first stop was to see the wireless man: The doctor said he lost quite a bit of blood and would be weak for a stretch, but would make a full recovery. "I've had worse, sir." From the strain in his voice and the hazy look in his eyes, Lincoln gathered that that wasn't true.

"Mr. Loud," Captain Bartlett started, and Lincoln turned to him, "I've made arrangements with the local parish for burying Sgt. Copperfield. The funeral will be this afternoon."

Lincoln nodded. "Yes, sir."

"I need a volunteer to dig the grave," the old man continued. "Custom on Kea dictates that the family of the deceased is responsible for such. Can you -?"

"I'll do it, sir," Lincoln blurted.

Captain Bartlett raised his eyebrows. "Are you sure?"

Lincoln hesitated a tick before nodding. He did not relish the idea of digging a man's grave, but it was the least he could do for a fellow Englishman killed in a strange and far-flung corner of the world thousands of miles from home and hearth. Lincoln himself had no family, but he imagined that Sgt. Copperfield must - a wife and children, perhaps, who loved him dearly - and the thought of him not not being afforded the respect and dignity that he deserved bothered Lincoln.

The chair creaked in protest as Captain Bartlett sat back. "I appreciate it." He looked around. "Dr. Kostopoulos should be back momentarily, I'll see to it that he has someone direct you to the cemetery. In the meantime, have a spot of breakfast."

Lincoln nodded and left, only instead of going to the mess hall at the back of the hospital, he went directly to the maternity ward. Lynn sat in a wheelchair in front of the window, her right ankle thickly bandaged and a green knit blanket covering her lap. She gazed longingly at the pane, the soft kiss of the morning sun painting her face in rich golden tones, her skin blazing with a warm luminous glow, putting him firmly in mind of an angel on high. Lincoln's stomach knotted and the breath squeezed from his lungs. She sensed him and looked over her shoulder, her slight frown turning into a wide, beaming smile and her eyes dancing with light. Lincoln had been in a scuffle or two in his life, and he knew well the feeling of being punched in the gut - what he felt now was similar. "Good morning," he said and stood over, his hands going behind his back. His cheeks felt hotter than they should have and his midsection quivered like a plateful of gelatin. He recalled being a schoolboy rather well - though often he wished he couldn't - but he could not remember ever feeling more like one than he did now.

"Good morning," she replied, a light airiness in her voice, "I was starting to think you'd forgotten me."

Lincoln's middle lurched like the deck of a brig in stormy seas. "I couldn't forget you," he said seriously, and she blushed deeply, "I was indisposed for much of the morning."

"Oh? With ship matters?"

"No, with bed matters."

Lynn smirked. "Sleeping late like a common layabout. _I've_ been up since dawn." She laid her hands on the wheel and spun the chair to face him; he stepped back to avoid having his feet crushed beneath the tires. "The doctor says I should try to walk with crutches later," she said.

"That's brilliant," Lincoln said, "do you think you can do it?"

"I can try," she responded, "that's all a body can do."

Lincoln nodded, appreciating her determination. Women, as he understood them, were the weaker of the sexes, and were too damned passive in many regards. Lynn struck him as a woman of action deep down; some men might find that uncouth or off putting, but to him, it was refreshing. The women he saw day to day seemed fragile objects that might break if not handled right, and though Lynn was meek and retiring on her surface, he discerned a certain fire in her, a will _and_ a means to a way. She was like an exquisite painting hanging in a gallery: Every time he looked closely, he found something else to admire. "Perhaps you can go abroad. It's a fine day by the looks of it."

Nodding, Lynn said, "Perhaps I could. I'd like to acquaint myself with the use of crutches before I make any trips, though. I've never had them before."

"Neither have I," Lincoln said thoughtfully. "You're a nurse, I expected you to know them better."

Lynn laughed. "Helping someone else with them and having them to yourself are two completely different things."

"I suppose," he allowed and sighed. "I've matters to attend to this afternoon and cannot say when I'll be back." He was going to leave it at that, but continued instead. "Sgt. Copperfield's funeral is later and I'll be assisting in the preparation." He could not bring himself to tell her what dreadful task he volunteered for; her sensibilities might not be as stringent as others' of her sex, but some matters are best left unbroached in certain company.

Lynn nodded understandingly. "I was wondering if they'd bury him." She hesitated, then, "Do you know how many were lost?"

She visibly braced herself for the news, excepting the number to be high, and Lincoln missed several beats as he debated with himself whether he should be forthright or deflect the question. _Don't worry about that, worry about getting better_. His impression of her as not being as frail as the average woman decided him. "Thirty," he said.

Her face, hitherto clenched in expectation, smoothed a little. "That's all?" she asked.

"We were very fortunate," he nodded, struggling to keep the memory of the blades and his own abiding guilt at bay. "Most of the survivors are en route to Athens, then from there to England. A ship is being sent for us but won't be here for a few days, I believe."

Lynn flicked her eyes down as she digested his meaning. "It's terrible that thirty people died, but it could have been far worse. Thank God it happened before we got to Lemmons." She shuddered, and Lincoln nearly did as well. After calling at Lemmons, _Britannic_ would have been packed with thousands of war wounded, and the death toll would have been inconceivable.

"It could have," Lincoln said, "but it wasn't."

Momentarily, a sailor poked his head in to say that someone was ready to take Lincoln to the cemetery, and Lincoln nodded. To Lynn: "That's my call to arms. I'll be back later...if you'll have me."

"I'd very much like you to come back," she said to her lap, and partially hidden though her face was, Lincoln detected a widening of her ever present smile.

"Then I will," he said.

Taking his leave, he followed the sailor outside, where a horse-drawn cart waited at the bottom of the stairs, two men in straw hats at the reins. Sgt. Copperfield's coffin, a simple pine box with a lid nailed shut, sat in the back, a shovel, a pick, and other tools crammed into the narrow space between it and the wall. Lincoln sat with his legs dangling over the edge and his back flush against the casket; the sailor sat next to him.

On the ride to the graveyard, Lincoln watched the village receding away, its steep streets and Mediterranean buildings looking less grimey and aien than the day before. The air tasted sweeter and the sun shone brighter; he took a deep breath and let it out in a carefree sigh. He was on his way to bury a man and, God help him, he couldn't remember being more cheerful in his life. "It's a rather nice town," he remarked.

"Yes, sir," the sailor said, "I'm fond of the tropics."

"So am I," Lincoln replied and lit a cigarette. "God can keep saving the king, but I'd rather somewhere that _isn't_ England."

The big, wooden wheels hit a pothole, and the cart jostled. "I fancy Brazil, sir," the sailor said.

"I've not been there," Lincoln said, "how is it?"

"Lovely, sir," the sailor replied.

The graveyard stood on a high bluff to Loulida's east, overlooking the crashing sea. Tall, brown grass wavered in the salty breeze, and crooked headstones, faded illegible by time and the elements, dotted the rugged terrain like the jagged bones of a great, prehistoric leviathan. The roar of the ocean pounding against the rocks below and the call of gulls above lent the place an air of tranquility that Lincoln found appealing. He doubted one retains any sort of consciousness after death and therefore would be none the wiser to their surroundings, but, despite that, he'd like to be buried in a spot much like this.

When the cart came to a rolling stop, he and the sailor jumped out, Lincoln grabbing the tools and surveying the area for a suitable spot. There seemed to be no pattern to the placements of the graves, the markers scattered haphazardly about like coins dropped from a celestial pocket. He squinted against the glare of the sun and shielded it from his eyes, suddenly and entirely devoted to locating the perfect bit of land for Sgt. Copperfield's final abode. Where, he asked himself, would he be put if he had a say? He scanned the hillock and glanced a parcel at near the edge of the burying ground cast in shade by the wide, spreading boughs of a brownish green kermes oak.

That, Lincoln decided, was the place.

He took the tools over and dropped them onto the dusty ground, then went back to the cart, where the Greeks were assisting the seaman in pulling the coffin out. Lincoln came over, grabbed the left front end, and, together, they carried it to the tree and sat it down. "Gently," Lincoln cautioned, his arms and back quivering - he did not like the thought of Sgt. Copperfield being rattled carelessly about. The Greeks stepped back and exchanged a few words in their language, then departed without ceremony, leaving Lincoln and the seaman alone on the bluff. Lincoln looked from the coffin to the sailor and back again. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Abbot, sir."

"Right, then, I'll handle the digging and you stand by in case I need you."

"Yes, sir," Abbot nodded. He clasped his hands behind his back and planted his feet far apart, looking for all the world like a guard protecting a sacred place or person from molestation. Lincoln grabbed the pick, took a step back, his grip tightening on the splintery handle, then hefted it over his shoulder and swung. The blade hit the thin soil and a thrumming vibration shot up Lincoln's arms; the tip sank roughly half an inch into the ground and stopped. He ripped it out and did it again, bringing the tool up and down in a wide arc.

This was going to be harder than he thought.

He was determined to see it through, however, for Sgt. Copperfield and for the family back in England who surely loved him.

The pounding sun tracked slowly across the clear sky as he worked, losing himself in the simple task of digging, first with the pick then, when the soil was loose, the shovel. Sweat coursed down his face and back in warm, slimy rivers, soaking his shirt, and at point point he stopped to strip to the waist. The wind felt good against his slick flesh, and invigorated him. The hole was three feet deep or so now, the ground level with his knees, and, after lighting a cigarette, he went back to it, jamming the spade into the rocky dirt and then twisting to toss it to his left, where a large, lumpy mound had begun to form. Abbot watched awkwardly from the sidelines like a manservant waiting for his master to need him...and beginning to crack under the strain of his assistance not being required. "Would you like me to take over, sir?" he asked.

Lincoln, cigarette pinched between his lips and a stinging mixture of sweat and smoke in his eyes, stabbed the spade into the dirt and leaned his weight against the handle. His back ached and his arms quivered with exhaustion, but he made a promise to himself and to Sgt. Copperfield that he would handle what he could and do it right. "I'll do it," he said, and swallowed, throat tacky and dry. "I'd like some water, though."

"Yes, sir," Abbot said, then turned and hurried off in the direction of town, relieved, it appeared to be of use. Lincoln watched him go, then turned his attention to the buildings rising back from the sea like a field of flowers. The layout of the place intrigued him: Built on a rugged hillside and tightly packed, Loulida was improbable...but not without its charm. He took a drag and let the smoke out in a plume, his eyes going to the coffin - it sat drenched in sunlight, its right flank facing Lincoln and its foot pointing toward the ocean like an accusatory finger. That's _the scoundrel who murdered me._

What sort of man was he, Sgt. Copperfield? What sorts of things did he like? Did he ever expect when he woke yesterday morning that he wouldn't live to see noon? It was chilling to think how quickly death can come. You're walking along, fretting over the trivialities of life, planning what you'll do once you get home...and tomorrow...and the next day...then, like snapping your fingers, it's all over with. He thought of Wright, and how that morning, right before the blast, he talked of walking the deck with Colleen Kennedy. Then, later, he was drawn into the propellers and in the twinkling of an eye, he was dead - everything he was, everything he liked and didn't like, his boyish nature, his good-humored temperament, his memories, his experiences, everything that made him Richard J. Wright was blotted out. It happened so quickly...just...like that.

Lincoln's mood darkened and, flinging the cigarette away, he went back to digging, moving faster and harder now to dispel the nervous energy gathering in his chest like steam in a boiler. He forced his mind away from matters of mortality and to happier subjects...like Lynn O'Rourke. A gentle smile touched his lips and he breathed a quixotic sigh. Every time he spoke to her, or simply entered her presence, he found himself even more fond of her than he was before; notions of romance put him off balance, but the more he turned it over in his mind, the more certain he became that he was falling in love with her.

Presently, Abbot returned with a canteen full of water filled at a nearby well, and Lincoln stopped to take a long, grateful drink. "Thank you," he said and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He gave it to Abbot and resolved to hurry up and be done with this dreadful task.

It was nearly three when he finally finished; he was sweaty, coated in grime, and weary, but satisfied. The first people to arrive were from the village, an Eastern Orthodox priest and a woman who seemed to act as his assistant - the latter was short and squat, rather like a tool shed, and the latter tall and thin with a bald spot and eyeglasses. Not long thereafter, Captain Bartlett, Harold Phillips, and a dozen others from _Britannic_ streamed in, having walked from the hospital. Lincoln leaned against the shovel and watched them come, darting his eyes to each face as they appeared.

The service was short and unintelligible, the priest speaking in Greek (as Greeks are wont to do). Lincoln kept his head down and meditated on the fragility of life. An RAMC officer who knew Sgt. Copperfield said a few words about the late man: He was caring, brave, and loved helping people.

Afterwards, the priest sprinkled holy water onto the casket, and Lincoln and Abbot lowered it into the ground with leather straps. Everyone else drifted gradually away following that, and Lincoln dismissed Abbot, then, alone in a place of the dead, he filled the grave, the voice of the surf keeping him company. He was looking forward to seeing Lynn, and as he patted the dirt down with the flat end of the spade, it occurred to him that he should bring her a present. That's what a man does for the woman he might be falling in love with, wasn't it? He couldn't say for sure, but it seemed the proper thing.

He leaned the shovel against the tree and stood over the grave to pay his last respects. Done, he grabbed his shirt from its spot on the ground, pulled it on, and buttoned it up as he crossed the uneven ground, grass whispering as it brushed against his knees. He stopped at the weathered clapboard arch, lit a cigarette, and walked aimlessly into town, knowing only that he needed a gift for Lynn, something worthy of a woman like her. He found himself in the market, both sides of the street crammed with stalls, booths, and tables laden with fruit, nuts, meats, spices, and trinkets of every shape, size, and description. Old women in kerchiefs carefully browsed the selection and Merchants hawked their wares with the desperate gusto of circus ringmasters bordering on destitution.

Lincoln slowed his step when he saw something on a wheeled cart, something...perfect. Grinning proudly to himself, he went over.

* * *

For most of the afternoon, Lynn sat in her wheelchair and stared out the window, her thoughts distant and a hazy smile on her lips. Around noon, a nurse came with a tray of food, and Lynn asked after the cemetery. "Is...there," the nurse said haltingly. She bent over Lynn's chair and pointed vaguely to the east. Lynn could not see it from here, but still she gazed in that direction, hoping against hope to catch even the briefest glimpse of Lincoln.

When it became clear that she wouldn't, she gave up and rolled herself to the bed with a defeated sigh. She locked the wheels, braced one hand on the mattress and the other on the nightstand, then shifted herself into bed. The woman from yesterday, a Mrs. Dimakos, sat up in her own bed with her baby suckling at her breast. Lynn had been trying off and on all today to determine whether it was a boy or a girl, but hadn't any luck. She considered asking the nurse, as Mrs. Dimakos did not speak English, but the guessing kept her preoccupied, and with so much empty time to fill, Lynn needed all the preoccupation she could get.

During the times she wasn't thinking of Lincoln, the dream she had the night before crept in like cold after the dying of a fire. She was back on _Britannic_ , limping frantically through tilted halls and lobbies in the dark, panic gripping her chest and a stir of whispers dancing around her - she could make out words if she listened close enough, but she didn't, because she knew somehow that if she did, she would die.

Eventually, water swept in and started rising around her, and her panic turned to raw hysteria. Ahead, a glimmer of daylight appeared, and her heart leapt. She made for it...but her soaring hopes for salvation crashed when the steward stepped out of an open doorway and blocked her path. Though it was pitch black, she could _see_ his bloated, blue tinged face...his sickly yellow eyes; when he spoke, water gushed from his mouth. " _You're a good looking chit."_ His hand shot out and closed around her soft, beating throat, his jagged nails digging into her flesh and his putrid breath hot, rank, and smelling of the grave.

She tried to fight him off, but in death he was strong, and as the ship sank around them, the sea flooding her lungs and cutting off her air supply but not killing her...never killing her...he did things to her, awful, painful, unutterable things. She came sharply awake in a silvery moonbeam, her heart slamming so hard her vision tinged with gray. The ward was dark save for the pallid glow, and even though she was awake...and safe...she was irrationally certain that the steward was standing in the shadows, dripping wet and dead, his hands clenching and unclenching as he took a shuffling step forward…

Shaking with the urgency of a small child running to its parents from the bogeyman, she leaned over and snapped on the lamp; it wasn't much, a tiny spark against all of the night, but it was enough to calm her.

After a while sitting up and convincing herself that it was all a terrible nightmare, she settled back in bed and tried to sleep again, but couldn't. She laid awake staring at the ceiling and wishing Lincoln was with her until dawn, when she transferred herself to the wheelchair and rolled to the window overlooking the town. She waited impatiently to see if Lincoln would come to her, and each moment that he didn't knotted her stomach just a little more until she was so bound up she could hardly sit still. She was just beginning to think that he wouldn't when she looked up and he was there, as tall, strong, and handsome as ever.

Right now, sitting in bed once more, she wished he would hurry up - she missed him.

Across the ward, Mrs. Dimakos pressed her baby to her shoulder and patted its back, a tiny smile of contentment on her lips. To distract herself from the dream and from the building suspense of waiting for Lincoln, Lynn surreptitiously observed the Greek, and was touched by how drastically her mood improved whenever the nurse brought her baby round. Lynn hadn't gotten a good look at the child, but from what she _had_ seen, it was beautiful.

The sunlight was beginning to weaken and the shadows grew long. She turned away from the window and startled, for someone was standing beside her. For a heart-stopping second she thought it was the steward, but saw instead that it was Lincoln, and her heart stopped again, but for a different reason this time.

"Good evening, Mrs. O'Rourke," he said with a smile. He held up a bouquet of small purple flowers. "I brought you something."

Lynn stared at them for a moment in surprise, then tentatively took them, her chest swelling with warmth and a smile spreading across her face. "Thank you," she said with a slight tremor of emotion and lifted them to her nose, their fragrance like the sweetest perfume. "They're lovely."

"They reminded me of something else lovely," he said and met her eyes. Lynn's face flushed and a giggle slipped out. Looking into his gaze, she could plainly see that he meant it - he thought she was lovely.

That made her tingle from head to toe. She wracked her brain for a reply, but she honestly didn't know what to say to that. "Thank you," she finally said through her smile, "you're very sweet."

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

Lynn nodded. "Better. Not as sore as I have been. I think I might try walking tomorrow."

"That's wonderful," Lincoln said. "I'm sure sitting here all day is beginning to wear on you."

Oh, it was. Lynn had never thought of herself as a woman of action, but she was definitely no sloth, and being confined to a bed and a wheelchair was torture. She said as much, and Lincoln laughed. "I would feel the same way. Not being up and about is a strange, unpleasant state of being. When I'm on leave, I sit on whatever bed I'm occupying and stare at the wall, waiting to go back."

He pulled a chair up and sat down with a sigh. "You must enjoy your work then," she said.

"I do," Lincoln nodded, "I've tried to see myself doing something else, but I can't. The sea has a way of getting into your blood, and once that happens, you're lost." He chuckled, and Lynn thought she detected a hint of nervousness, as though he were afraid to admit that. She didn't know why, seafaring was a perfectly suitable career.

She glanced from him to the flowers in her hands, and she smiled again. "How long have you been at sea?" she asked and looked up at him.

"Eleven years," he said.

That seemed like a long time for such a young man...though, now that she thought of it, she didn't know _how_ old Lincoln was. She got the impression that he wasn't much older than she. "How old were you?" she asked curiously.

"Eleven when I went."

"Eleven?" she asked with a note of shock. "You were just a boy."

Lincoln nodded. "Indeed," he said easily.

"Why so young?" she asked. "Didn't your parent object?"

"I didn't have parents," Lincoln stated matter-of-factly, and Lynn flinched a little. He seemed unperturbed, as though that fact did not bother him in the least, but she still regretted bringing the topic up, and apologized. "It's quite alright," he assured her, "I've made peace with that. No use in railing against something you cannot change. Why, you might as well shake your fist at the rain." He laughed and crossed his legs, his arms folding over his chest. Lynn's eyes went to his muscular forearms, laid bare by cuffed sleeves, and allowed them to linger. She tried to imagine how his hands would feel on her body, and felt a twinge of dread - hard, rough, cold, and closing around her throat…

She darted her gaze away and took a deep breath. She was thinking not of him but of the steward - Lincoln would not hurt her, she could see that in his eyes. Despite knowing that on a deep, instinctual level, a cold shiver blew through her like an icy wind and she barely suppressed a shudder.

Getting hold of herself, she said, "I suppose you're right. What did you do when you started? I wouldn't think there'd be much use for an untrained boy."

"Cabin boy," Lincoln said instantly.

"What does a cabin boy do?"

Lincoln shifted. "Whatever the other men tell him. Cooking, cleaning, lifting, fetching things, anything that needs doing, really. A ship is like society itself. There's room for everyone and always menial tasks about. Why have an experienced seaman scrape barnacles off the hull when he can be better engaged elsewhere? Have the cabin boy do it."

"Sounds dreadful," Lynn said, envisioning all the awful things he was made to do...and as a child at that. Keen and sudden sympathy filled her breast and the urge to give him a tender hug came upon her like the warm breath of the Aegean wind.

He smirked mischievously, and she fancied that she saw the boy that he once was. "It was," he said. "Slavery's not dead in the empire. It's simply called other things now." He laughed heartily and Lynn arched a quizzical brow. His laughter, however, was nice, and it made her grin.

"You seem to have weathered it well," she remarked when he sobered.

"Of course," he said, "that's what one does in life. I'm sure you've weathered things. In fact, I know for certain that you have. Yesterday you survived a shipwreck and today you're smiling."

That was true, she supposed. "I don't feel like I'm weathering it very well," she confessed. "I'm stuck in bed and having nightmares.." she trailed off when she realized what she said. She did not mean to bring up the dream; she felt comfortable enough with him that her guard slipped, and out it came like an obscene bodily function.

His handsome features wrinkled in concern. "Nightmare?" he asked.

"It's nothing," Lynn said quickly, not wanting him to worry and not wishing to appear weak or flighty. "I'll get through it, I just…I'm not holding up as well as you." She uttered a nervous laugh and dearly hoped that he didn't think less of her.

Shifting his weight and leaning closer, he said, "I haven't dreamed of it, but it's only been one night. If it makes you feel any better, I fully expect to at some point."

"I was very frightened," she admitted to the flowers in her lap. Doing so was hard as British custom dictated quiet stoicism in the face of adversity, but she couldn't help herself: She _was_ frightened, and when she pondered the matter, it bothered her all the more, even though she survived, even though it was over.

Lincoln moved in a rustle of fabric and creaking chair, and, suddenly, his palm rested haltingly on the back of her hand, and her entire body tensed. He hesitated, his fingers trembling and pulling slightly away, then he squeezed and her heart burst in an electric mixture of fear, rapture, longing, and horror. She flashed back to the steward choking her and touching her between her legs, and a crackle raced down her spine and into the pit of her stomach; her muscles clenched and her lungs withered to airless husks. She jerked her face to Lincoln's, and their gazes locked. His eyes were the softest and warmest shade of brown she had ever seen, and in them, she saw deep and gentle earnestness. They were as unlike the steward's eyes as spring is from winter - the steward's were cold and dark, Lincoln's were warm and full of light.

Her palpitating heartbeat stilled and the panic clawing at her soul quieted. She offered an ashen smile and slipped her fingers through his. "I was frightened too," he said gravely. "More for you than myself, but...for myself too." He brushed his pinkie over her index knuckle, and she grazed her fingertips over his. Her heart was racing again and she could scarcely breathe, but for a different reason now, a _better_ reason.

"You were very brave," was all she could think to say, her voice a husky whisper that she could hardly hear over the crash of blood in her temples.

Lincoln crack a self-abasing smile. "You didn't see me cry later on."

That made Lynn laugh richly; the thought of a man like him crying was so absurd as to be unthinkable. "I doubt you cried," she said and stroked her thumb along his pinkie, the kiss of his skin against hers making her breathing catch.

"I did," he said lowly, "like a baby."

"No, you didn't," she challenged teasingly.

"I assure you, Miss, O'Rourke, I did. Captain Bartlett spent the night holding me and telling me it was okay."

They both ducked their heads and laughed. "If you say so, Officer Loud, I'll take your word for it," Lynn said.

Later on, after he left, Lynn sat back against the pillows and drew a deep breath. The warmth of his touch lingered and the happiness in her chest continued to bubble and fizz. She stared out the window at the moon-dappled sea and thought only of him.

For better or worse, she realized, she was completely, hopelessly, and irrevocably in love with him.


	9. Until Then

**STR2D3PO: If by "them" you mean the fish, then yes, they did. He's entombed deep in the ship, and legend has it his bones are there to this day.**

* * *

 _ **November 24, 1916**_

Lincoln sat at the desk between his and Captain Bartlett's beds and tapped the pencil against the page, his face arranged in a deep, thoughtful expression - lips pursed, eyes squinted, brow rippled with creases. He scanned the tight, pragmatic script and reread the latest passage for the tenth time since putting it down.

 _I ordered boats 3F and 3G set into the water but not cast off, as the ship was still in motion and I had not received orders to put them away. I went to assist Officer Wright with the loading of 6A and 6B. He asked that I take command of 6A, but I persuaded him to leave while I remained. I oversaw the lowering to the waterline of both boats, then was roused by a frantic call from the seaman manning the davits of 3F. I hastened over, whereupon I found, to my alarm, that both 3F and 3G were free of the falls. I was later informed that several men in the boats said 'to hell with his orders' and cut the lines themselves, not realizing that we were still steaming ahead. I was powerless but to watch as they were both sucked into the propellers. Many people jumped from the boats before they were pulled in, but only a few managed to swim clear in time. I did not observe the second boat being taken in; I looked away, but I heard the most heart-rending screams of woe and misery, then the grinding of the boat, and however many people, being chopped up like so much rubbish. I'll never forget it._

He sat back in his chair and fought to catch his slamming heart. Reading it, as well as writing it, he was back on _Britannic,_ the sounds of death and destruction ringing in his ears like a funeral knell, the high, throat-ripping shrieks of men and women realizing they were going to die, the splash and grugle of the rotors slashing the sea. He recalled Nurse Forsythe's headless body bobbing to the surface, and through he didn't look very long, he could see every gruesome detail - her ragged, torn flesh, veins and bones jutting from her ruined neck, blood spurting into the air as the movement of the ocean shoved her rudely aside, to sink like a bag of refuse instead of a human being who'd been living only moments before. He went back to helping her into the boat, to how terrified she was to get in and how he assured her it was safe. Less than five minutes later, her body floated off and had yet to be recovered.

A rush of sickly guilt gushed through his wringing stomach and he sucked a sharp, shivery breath. He suspected that writing his account of the sinking would affect him, but not this severely. The previous night, he returned late from visiting Lynn, and Captain Bartlett was in this very spot, hunched over with a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. In the spill from the table lamp, his profile was dark and somber. _There you are, Mr. Loud,_ he said and looked up at him. He seemed older somehow, his face drawn. _With Miss O'Rourke, were you?_ There was no accusation in his voice.

That day, Lincoln scarcely left Lynn's side - they spent hours in the maternity ward chatting and laughing as easily as lifelong friends. She walked a bit with the support of crutches, and Lincoln was right there to fuss over her safety and progress like a mother hen. She did brilliantly, though, as he suspected she would.

 _Yes, sir,_ he replied a tad awkwardly, feeling rather like an embarrassed young boy must under the wise yet unwanted scrutiny of his father.

 _You make a lovely pair,_ Captain Bartlett said, then, moving right along, _I'm putting down my account of the accident, you'd best do the same. For the inquiry._

Lincoln nodded. He assumed that there would be an inquest into the wreck, but since he'd never been involved in a serious maritime incident, he wasn't exactly sure how it would proceed. He imagined testifying but that was it. _Aye, sir, I'll get started at once._ He wrote up to the launching the ill-fated boats then stopped because, frankly, the thought of reliving it unnerved him and he wished to put it off as much as he could.

With the horrible details clear in his mind, like tender flesh revealed by the ripping away of a scab, he climbed into bed...and dreamed of _Britannic_. In it, he stood on the slanted deck completely alone, no sound but the roar of the propellers and the piercing sound of hysterical sobbing coming from the water. He gripped the line dangling from the davit and looked over the side as Lynn swept past, her back to the blades and her hooked fingers frantically clawing at the sea. A hammer head of fright smashed his heart and every muscle in his body coiled - he leapt heedlessly in and landed feet away from her, his head never dipping beneath the surface. The spinning blades came faster, their terrible din filling the world. Lynn's big, brown eyes pooled with animal panic and thin tears tracked down her cheeks. Lincoln, somehow stationary, held out his hand, and she reached for it, grabbing hold and clutching with frightened desperation.

The propeller sped impossibly up, and Lincoln could only watch as it gobbled her whole, leaving him holding her severed hand.

That was when he sat bolt upright in bed, his heart pounding and his body slathered in cold, slimy sweat. Warm, dusty moonlight streamed through the window and lent the world a bright, silvery glow - in the next bed over, Captain Bartlett lay flat on his back, his ample frame gently rising and falling; he made no noise in his slumber, a stoic statue of a man even as he slept. Lincoln swallowed hard and raked his fingers through his hair; he trembled slightly and his breathing came in short, hot bursts that pinched his side. He forced himself to lie back down, but sleep would not come: The abject terror in dream Lynn's eyes haunted him, and the plaintive sound of her screaming echoed through the chambers of his head. It was so vivid, so lifelike, that he could still feel the soft, delicate shape of her slender hand in his and call up a crystal clear image of her face. As she was sucked in, her expression changed, became hurt, accusatory. _I trusted you to protect me,_ it said, _and you let me die._

Only she didn't die. She was alive and well in the maternity ward - a thousand and one things could have gone wrong as he rescued her from _Britannic,_ but they both made it to safety, and dwelling on what could have been was utterly pointless...why torture himself with it? Regardless, every awful eventuality, from the funnel crushing them as it toppled over to them being trapped below decks as the ship began its final plunge flashed across his mind like a picture show in hell. The sensation in his chest went from one of mild dread to deep, black foreboding, and some time before dawn, he got up, dressed, and made his way through the dimly lit halls to the maternity ward. He passed one nurse on the way, and she ignored him as though he were a phantom - he and the others were a common sight around the hospital, and the staff had normalized their presence.

In the ward, which was lit only by the moon, he found Lynn asleep, curled up on her side and facing away from the door. The other beds stood empty, the woman who had her baby having been discharged. Lincoln's heart raced as he approached Lynn's bed; he was certain that she would be dead, her beautiful face cold and the light in her eyes forever extinguished. When he saw that she was indeed alive and well as he'd told himself, he let out a pent-up breath and smiled down at her, fierce and aching love flooding his breast. He hadn't gathered the daring to tell her yet, but he loved her dearly - her accent, the light, musical sound of her laughter, her tenacity, everything, he loved everything about her.

Being quiet so as not to disturb her, he pulled the chair up and sat. He watched her for nearly an hour before getting up and leaving again, his affection growing by leaps and bounds until he longed to crawl in and wrap his arms tightly around her. He almost did, but stopped himself because that would not be proper. He'd never had a serious relationship with a woman before and now, was endlessly lost as how to act with her, his heart telling him to thread his fingers through her hair and kiss her lips, but decorum, as he understood it, demanding a level of modesty that precluded such bold displays. He thought back to every man and wife he'd ever observed for cues, and was mildly surprised that he could not recall ever seeing so much as a kiss or tender embrace. Perhaps his feelings were stronger and cruder than is normal, but he could not imagine having the liberty - through matrimony - of kissing Lynn and putting his arm around her shoulder but _not_ taking advantage of it. Why, if she was his wife, he'd never leave the poor girl alone!

The idea of her as his wife made his middle pang sharply, and as he lay in bed struggling to fall back asleep, he turned it over and over like a strange and intriguing artifact. He dropped off with knots in his stomach, and woke again just before eight to the sun bathing his face. After using the toilet and shaving, he sat down to finish his account of the sinking and made it past the worst part: Reliving the horror of seeing people sucked to their deaths, one of them a man he considered his friend. With that out of the way, he reckoned the rest would come easily.

He sighed and glanced longingly at the door. He wanted to see Lynn but his sense of duty demanded that he finish the report before doing so - much like eating your meat before having your pudding. He picked up the pencil and went over what he'd written one last time before continuing. As he wrote, visions of Lynn crowded out grim scenes of _Britannic_ foundering; the feeling of her small hand in his, the way she brightened when he said something humorous or to which she could ardently relate. The afternoon sunshine shimmered in her hair and her skin glowed with its own effervescence; when she spoke, it was the sweetest melody, and when she turned her brown eyes on him, his heart crazily skipped like a phonograph record being jostled. Being with her woke in him the most wonderful feelings, and being apart from her, as he was now, was torture. He'd known her only a short period of time, but he'd come to need her the way a flower needs water.

He drew a deep breath and hurried through the account, stopping at the point the Greeks pulled him and the others aboard their caïque. He didn't think the Admiralty would care about anything beyond that - they'd probably not even concern themselves with what happened once he left the ship. Their purview was _Britannic,_ not Lincoln Loud or Lynn O'Rourke.

Dropping the pencil onto the pad, he pushed away from the desk, stood with a strained grunt, and stretched: He didn't know how long he'd been sitting here, but it was long enough that his lower back was tight and his bum sore. He pushed the chair in, paused to make his bed, then went into the hall. The room he and Captain Bartlett shared sat at the end of a little traveled corridor and was normally used by doctors and nurses, as shifts here lasted several days at a time. He closed the door behind him and set off in the direction of the maternity ward. As he walked, a bounce crept into his step and his spirits lifted. By the time he reached the unit, he was close to humming.

In the wing, he looked expectantly toward Lynn's bed, anticipating her awaiting him, perhaps with a look of strained patience, but frowned.

She wasn't there.

He turned toward the window, where she liked to sit in her wheelchair, but she wasn't there either. His brown creased and worry pinched his chest. She probably went out for a roll around the building as sitting in the ward was beginning to wear on her. He went back into the hall and wandered around for a bit, but didn't see her, and his anxiety heightened. He tried to speak with one of the nurses, but the bloody wench only spoke Greek.

He finally found her in a semi enclosed courtyard behind the building, the hospital surrounding it on three sides and the fourth open: A field of tall, brown grass sloped up to a steep hillside covered in thistles, tangled scrub brush, and gnarled trees, their branches swaying in the arid wind. She sat upon a marble bench under the shade of an olive tree with a thin trunk, clad in a brown dress with a square neck and billowing sleeves. Her legs were crossed at the knee. She languidly smoked a cigarette, her head tilting back and a blue stalk flowing from her lips; the sunlight caressed her hair, and the breeze made it stir.

Several moments passed as he admired her, then, coming alive, he went over. She looked up disinterestedly, saw that it was him, and broke out in a sunny smile. "Well, there you are. And later than normal. You really need to stop lying about all hours of the day. People might start thinking you're lazy."

She scooted over to make room, and he sat, his knee brushing against hers - there wasn't much space, but he didn't mind, and he didn't think she did either. "I _have_ become lazy, haven't I?" he asked and took out his cigarette pack; it was half empty and he only bought it yesterday afternoon. When he smoked his first one he nearly retched, but by now he was growing accustomed to them . They weren't like the cigarettes in England, or anywhere else for that matter. They resembled tiny cigars and possessed a sweet flavor that he initially found off-putting but now appreciated. He twisted to one side to take out his lighter, and his knee bumped into hers.

"You're also extremely rude," she said playfully and knocked her knee against his as if to push it away.

Lincoln lit his cigarette and shoved the lighter back into his pocket. "That wasn't very ladylike," he commented, "it's you who are being rude." He knocked his knee into hers in turn.

"I was sitting here peacefully," she said, "until _you_ came along."

A warm breeze rustled the leaves of the tree in a quiet and scandalized whisper. _Look at them convorting about like school children. No decency at all!_ Lincoln slapped his knee against hers and opened his legs, straining as she pushed back, her face clenching with exertion. "You're a brute," she said through her teeth. "And a villain." She surprised him by driving out her arm and shoving him. She was a small thing, but he wasn't expecting it, and fell from the bench with a breathless _umph_ , the air bursting from his lungs and the cigarette falling from his lips. Lynn's eyes widened in alarm...then she covered her mouth with her hands, leaned forward, and brayed loud, hitching laughter.

Mustering as much dignity as he could, Lincoln picked up his cigarette got to his feet, and dusted himself off. Lynn looked up at him and he lifted his brow in what he hoped resembled stern disapproval; she laughed even harder. "I'm sorry," she said between snorts, "I didn't mean to knock you over. I guess I expected more of a fight." For whatever reason, that sent her off on another fit, and Lincoln grinned at the merriment dancing in her eyes.

"Fighting a lady isn't proper," Lincoln said and took a puff, "if you were a man, however, I'd have whalloped you."

Sitting back and making an obvious effort to rein herself in, Lynn said, "I really am sorry." There was an earnest hint of sobriety in her voice that indicated her expression of remorse was genuine, which sent a hot blush of shame creeping across the back of Lincoln's neck. The thought of appearing weak in front of Lynn frankly horrified him, and what way could a man possibly look weaker than by being upset from the simple shove of a one-hundred-ten pound woman? "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he half-lied. Physically he was unharmed, but his ego sustained a frightful bruise.

Lynn looked up at him, her eyes narrowed slightly as though she were searching for traces of deceit, then she slid over and patted the spot next to her. "You can sit. I won't push you off again."

He moved to tell her, in jest, that he would rather stand, but the way she stared at him, her hands resting on her knees and her big eyes brimming with delight forestalled him. He sat, and she scooted closer, her knee skimming his. Lincoln's gaze went to her hand, and, after an indecisive moment, he took it. Proper or not, only the olives saw, and he'd be damned if he'd allow a glorified fruit to dissuade him. Lynn slipped her fingers through his and blushed deeply. Did his touch made her heartbeat quicken the way her touch did _his?_ Did the shape of his hand feel as bloody good to her as her hand did to him? He suspected that it must, or she wouldn't be smiling giddily to herself, and her face wouldn't be so deeply crimson.

"How do you feel today?" he asked, noting that her wheelchair was not in sight; nor, for that matter, were her crutches.

She brought the cigarette to her lips and took a long draw. Lincoln watched much like a dog rapt at a steak. He yearned to lean in and kiss her slowly, passionately, but he stayed himself. Holding her hand was one thing, but going that far was quite another. Even though he desperately wanted to. "I walked out here on my own," she said proudly and smirked at him.

"No crutches?" The previous afternoon, her ankle was still sore but, as they walked the halls together, back and forth again and again, her body limbered up some. He expected her to no longer need assistance by the end of today, but not much sooner.

She nodded. "Under my own power."

"That's wonderful," Lincoln said.

"I still hurt some," she cautioned, "but not enough to keep me down. I've decided that I've had enough of that bed and that blasted chair. I want to be up." She pronounced the final four words with firm and dogged resolution, and Lincoln had never believed someone more: She meant what she said and nothing short of hell or high water would stand in her way. He stroked his thumb over her knuckles, relishing the soft heat of her silken skin, and gave an encouraging squeeze. "I'd like to see the town," she said and dropped her cigarette to the ground, then stomped it beneath her shoe. "Or the hills. Anything but those same four ugly walls."

"Can your ankle handle it?" Lincoln worried.

"It very well better," she declared.

He smiled at her pluck; it became more and more appealing with each passing day. Soon he'd be out of his mind for her like a sot for a bottle. "Would you like me to show you about? I don't know the village very well, but I can get us there and back again."

She turned her eyes to him and his breath caught like it always did. "I would," she said boldly.

Lincoln couldn't stop himself from lifting her hand and kissing it. Her eyes widened, and her cheeks turned even redder than they were before. "As you wish," he said.

* * *

A half an hour later, Lynn strolled side-by-side with Lincoln into town, a warm breeze redolent of salt, flowers, and unnameable foods flowing over her and streaming through her hair. Pain flared in her ankle with every step, but she did not show her discomfort: The previous day, Lincoln said that her tenacity was endearing, and she wanted very much for him to find her endearing, therefore, she pretended that, like him, she was strong, brave, and unaffected.

A long U-shaped street fronted the hospital, and Lincoln lead her to the right, his hand fluttering protectively to her lower back and sending pangs rippling through her stomach. She looked up at him, and he favored her with a soft, tender smile that made her feel as though she would melt. "You're alright?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yes." Just as long as he was with her, she would be alright no matter what.

"If you start to hurt, tell me."

"I will," she vowed.

The street sloped sharply down, and the steep angle of the sidewalk made her ankle hurt even more, but she did not complain. "It's a lovely place," she commented. She meant the town, but that statement also summed up how she felt about being with him. "Have you been about much?"

Hands at his sides now, Lincoln shook his head. "Not terribly much, no. The market and the telegraph office mainly."

"It's odd that they built it on a hillside this way," Lynn said, then furrowed her brow. "I wonder if the deal with many landslides." She glanced over her shoulder at the hospital; it loomed forward like a stern, watchful headmaster perpetually seeing and disapproving. It was a lovely building, with its creme colored stucco and red slate roof, palms standing along its front, but Lynn had come to dislike it: Its long, shadowy halls, its stale, stagnant air, stirred by nary a breath, its smell. She scanned the ground upon which it sat in search of answers to her own question but found naught.

Next to her, Lincoln hummed. "I had the same thought," he said and glanced around. "They mustn't; the buildings all look like they've been here a while."

Lynn studied the houses as they passed, trying to see how he was able to infer that they'd been standing _a while_ vs not all that long, but failing. There must be some telltale sign that suggested age and stability, she just didn't know what it was. If he said so, however, she was prepared to take him completely at his word. "Does it rain much?" She was mildly surprised to find that she had full trust in him to know the answer.

He threw his head back as he considered his response, and Lynn watched him fixedly, her eyes tracing the rugged curve of his jaw and her hand tingling with the urge to touch it. "Not overly much," he said, "though I suspect the winters are wet."

By unspoken consent, they crossed the street and started down a narrow lane where the buildings were tall enough to blot out the sun, and close enough together to block out the wind. Alleyways ran between houses, and the white facades were caked in grime. Lincoln's brow lowered slightly as if in agitation, lending him a hard apparence that Lynn was not used to. The air between them grew tense, and she was taken aback. "Are you alright?" she asked, a note of apprehension in her voice.

He looked at her, saw the rising alarm on her face, and forced a wan smile. "Fine," he said, "I just don't like these neighborhoods. They remind me of Whitechapel." His eyes darted away from hers as he spoke and, unless she was mistaken, she saw shame in them, as though his knowing a place called Whitechapel well enough to see shades of it in Greece was endlessly embarrassing.

"Oh," she said, then, before she could stop herself, "what's Whitechapel?" As soon as the words were out, she regretted speaking them. Whatever and wherever it was, it clearly brought him discomfort, and she gracelessly asked him about it. If her ankle wasn't aching, she would have kicked herself.

To his credit, Lincoln did not skirt the question, nor did he seem especially pained as he answered. "The neighborhood where I grew up," he said. "In London. East End. Dreadful place." He seemed as though he meant to add more, but closed his mouth instead.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I-I shouldn't have asked."

Lincoln smiled, reached out, and took her hand in his, the sensation of his rough, calloused fingers on her soft skin like five firm kisses. "It's no bother," he said. "I…" he hesitated, as though he wanted to go on but wasn't sure whether she would want to hear.

She squeezed his hand, and when he looked at her, she smiled. "You what?" she asked. _You can talk to me,_ she said with her eyes. She didn't know whether or not he received the message, but he _did_ talk.

"I can be a touch sensitive about it, I suppose," he said and faced straight ahead; he couldn't bring himself to look at her, and she sensed that he was going to reveal himself to her in a way that he did not - perhaps _would_ not - to other people. That he entrusted her with even the most fleeting glimpse of his innermost self touched her deeply. "Not the place itself, of course, but about the things that happened there. Rather, my childhood itself. I don't like thinking about it. I did not have it especially bad, but bad enough that remembering isn't something I'm fond of."

On the opposite side of the street, a group of men sat on a stoop and passed a bottle between them. Down a bit, several teenage boys played dice, one, clad in a vest and cap, shaking his hand obscenely, then throwing the die against the side of a building. The stench of rotting garbage and mildew found Lynn's nose and she wrinkled it. She looked expectantly at Lincoln, and when he didn't continue, she meditated on her reply. "If you want to talk about it," she said, "I'll be glad to listen."

He looked at her and smiled warmly. "I'd rather not. I...I fear you'd think less of me."

Lynn blinked. "Think less of you?" she asked, genuinely puzzled. She started to say that after the past few days, that wasn't possible, but stopped when it occurred to her that he was still largely a mystery to her. God alone knew what lurked in his past - what he'd done and where he'd been. "What did you do?"

That must have struck him as amusing, for he grinned. "Nothing," he said, and relief washed through her. "My mother…" he trailed off and took a deep breath, as though preparing himself for a dark confession. "My mother was a drunk," he said quickly, getting it out as fast as possible, perhaps before he lost his nerve, "and I know nothing of my father."

They were at the end of the street now; the market opened up to their right, and to the left, the road climbed the hill, leading back to the hospital. Lincoln stared ahead still, his expression strained in anticipation, she felt, of her being appalled.

Instead, she was confused. "Why would I think less of you for that?" she asked. He turned his head to her, and she caught a distinct flash of vulnerability in his eyes, the kind that cries out to be smothered in loving hugs and tender kisses. "You're a wonderful man," she went on, emotion creeping into her voice as she recalled his gallantry, his ever present concern, and the many, many times he made her laugh and looked at her as though she were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and not a lazy-eyed Irish wench. "That all has nothing to do with you; you turned out splendidly."

A hopeful smile twitched across his lips, and the sight of it made her heart pound. She squeezed his hand and stroked her thumb slowly and affectionately along his thumb. "I wouldn't be holding your hand if you didn't."

He laughed. "I suppose that does speak for itself, doesn't it?"

"It does," she told him.

From the street that reminded Lincoln of Whitechapel, they went right and into the market. They walked slowly, talking about the things they saw and the things they thought. Lynn's ankle started to really hurt after a while, but she said nothing - she was enjoying herself too much and didn't want their time about to end. "My father wanted a son," she told him at one point. They were sitting on a bench backed by a fountain and sharing a cigarette. Across the cobblestone street, people sat at tables in front of an eatery, the heavy smells of food and the din of chatter in Greek seasoning the wind. "He was not pleased to have had a daughter."

Discussing her father was difficult, but Lincoln bore his soul to her, and she owed it to him to do the same. Indeed, she _wanted_ to do the same.

"Did he mistreat you?" Lincoln asked.

She shook her head. "No, I wouldn't say he did. He just went about as though I didn't exist." She uttered a humorless laugh. Lincoln watched her with a frown and looked like he wanted to say something, but waited for her to continue. "I wanted to please him," she said. "I wanted to be the son he didn't have but "I didn't do a very good job of it. I joined the RAMC partly because I wanted him to be proud of me, and partly because...I wanted to be away from it, the pressure and the guilt."

"The guilt of what?" Lincoln asked.

Lynn thought carefully and deeply. "Of being a woman, I guess. It's foolish, but…" she took a drag because she didn't know what else to say. Her feelings were too complex for her to articulate, so she let them hang in the air between her and Lincoln.

Drawing a deep breath, Lincoln took the cigarette from her and stared down at his shoes. "Some people don't like being pleased," he said.

"I know," Lynn said.

He didn't say anything else for quite a while. "You're an incredible woman and...you please me. Very much."

Warm, effusive elation swelled in Lynn's chest and she had never been happier. She smiled widely to herself. "As you do me."

After the fountain, they made their way back up the hill, passing an endless stream of people going this way and that like ants scurrying over a mound on errands known only to them. Lynn's ankle throbbed and hiding it was getting harder, but when Lincoln suggested that they visit the ancient ruins he'd heard about, she did not think twice before agreeing.

They lie to the east of town along a jagged ridge rising against the dusty blue sky. They followed a worn dirt path zigzagging across a steep, rock-strewn hillside, and every so often Lynn would glance over her shoulder to find the town, and the sea, farther below. The pain in her ankle gradually increased, exacerbated by the uneven ground, until she could take it no longer: She dropped onto a large stone flanking the trail and sucked a deep, hissing breath through her teeth. Lincoln, ahead, turned, saw, and hurried over, concern writ across his face. "Are you alright?"

She nodded. "I'm fine," she panted, "my ankle hurts a bit. That's all."

He knelt in front of her and unthinkingly laid his hand on her knee. It was a simple gesture of friendly affection, but it sent Lynn's already staggering heart into a tizzy. "Do you want to go back?"

"No," she said, "I just need a rest."

"Alright," he said and smiled warmly. He leaned back on one knee and glanced at the sun drenched ocean. It stretched into forever, the horizon hazy. Lynn followed his gaze, and wondered if he was thinking of _Britannic._ She scanned the waves and tried to imagine what the sinking would have looked like from up here.

They waited close to fifteen minutes, but the pain in Lynn's ankle persisted. "We should have brought my wheelchair," she sighed. She hated that blasted thing, but right now, she'd give almost anything to have it.

Lincoln started to speak, then smirked. "I have an idea."

"That's dangerous," Lynn teased. "What it is?"

He spun on his knees and faced away from her. "Put your arms round my neck."

It took a moment for his meaning to sink in, and when it did, Lynn laughed. "Really?"

"Just like we did before," he confirmed.

"That was different," she said. "We were in the water for one, and for two, it was a matter of life or death."

Lincoln jerked a mischievous smile over his shoulder. "So is this, because if you don't, I'm leaving you here."

Lynn's jaw dropped. "You _wouldn't,"_ she said.

"I would."

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. "Alright, fine. Come closer." He did, and she threw her arms around his neck, the closeness of his body making her heart slam. She pressed her knees to his hips and held tight as he stood with the effortlessness of a man carrying nothing more than an empty cloth sack. "Ready?" he asked.

Her cheek rested against his, their lips so close Lynn could practically feel them touching. "I suppose," she said breathlessly.

"Here goes."

They started up the path, and Lynn clung tighter, terrified of falling, for if they did, they'd roll end over end down the hill until they either hit a jutting rock, or the bottom. They would likely not make it in either case.

Sensing her trepidation, Lincoln said, "I've got you. I won't let anything bad happen."

And she believed him.

At the top, he paused, and Lynn craned her neck to see around his head. The ruins sat less that twenty feet off, a cracked marble slab surrounded by crumbling Grecian columns. "Ah," Lincoln said as though he'd spotted something he misplaced, "there they are."

He started forward at a trot, and Lynn's heart leapt. "Slow," she said and kicked the back of his leg with her good foot.

"You said go?" he asked.

Before Lynn could correct him, he took off running. Her eyes widened and she clutched him desperately. Despite her panic, she laughed. "Stop! You're going to wreck us!"

"I won't - oh no!" He stumbled, and Lynn cried out. His laughter told her that he was teasing, and she kicked him again.

He slowed as they reached the construct - stairs lead up to the raised foundation, and, turning, he carefully sat her on the top step. "There," he said and sat next to her, "I told you we wouldn't wreck."

"You nearly killed us," Lynn said.

Lincoln waved his hand. "Nearly."

"I saw my life flash before my eyes."

"Was it terribly interesting?"

Lynn missed a beat. "No," she said. "It wasn't."

"Pity."

She laughed.

The hilltop commanded a sweeping view of the valley, town, and sea. From here, they could see the beach where they were brought ashore after being picked up. For a long time, neither spoke as they enjoyed the scene before them...and the company of the other. Lynn watched Lincoln from the corner of her eye, and after a while, his face scrunched slightly as though he were entertaining thoughts of great magnitude. Finally, he turned to her, and she to him. The vulnerability returned to his eyes and he looked far more timid that she had ever seen him. The effect was not off putting, however. In fact, she found it charming. "I haven't known you very long," he started and flicked his eyes down. "But I've very much enjoyed our time together."

Lynn smiled. "So have I."

He didn't say anything else for a moment, then he took her hand and looked into her eyes; Lynn's stomach clenched and her heartbeat quickened. "I don't want it to end," he said.

Neither did she. The past few days had been wonderful and already she'd tried to imagine parting ways with him, but couldn't.

He held her gaze. "Will you marry me?"

On some level, Lynn suspected, she anticipated the question, but to hear it out loud, from his lips and in his voice, struck her like a fist to the heart; the air rushed out of her and her body went rigid. Lincoln watched her anxiously, and looked down. "I know it's sudden, but -"

"Yes," Lynn heard herself say.

He looked up and their eyes locked. A giddly laugh broke from her throat and she gave into it. "Yes," she said, "I'll marry you."

For a moment they looked at each other, nether knowing how to proceed. Then Lincoln beamed and cupped her cheek in his hand, his thumb brushing along the ridge of her cheekbone. She smiled and leaned into his touch like a cat, relishing the feeling and the knowledge that he would be forever hers. They stared into one another's eyes, and, as if pulled together by forces of magnetism, they leaned into each other, the tips of their noses skimming, then their lips meeting. They both hesitated, then kissed, their tongues swirling with slow, clumsy uncertainty, gingerly testing one another, and then committing fully. The sweet taste of his breath filled her mouth, and a weak tremble ran through her lithe frame. He slipped his fingers into her hair and deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring the inside of her mouth and hers stroking it because she didn't know what else to do.

When he pulled back, his eyes shimmered and his skin was positively radiant. A shaft of sunlight fell over him, and Lynn could almost believe that he wasn't a man at all, but an angel. He lovingly caressed her face and she rubbed his knee through his pants. She was shaky and warm all over, her heart and stomach aching in tandem in the most beautifully excruciating way she had ever known.

"I don't have a ring," he said and reached into his pocket.

"I don't care," she blurted, and she didn't. She wanted him, not a ring.

"But until then." He held out his hand and pressed something cold and heavy into Lynn's palm.

His lighter, L. T. L carved across the front.

It was a simple thing, but what it symbolized meant so, so much that it brought a tear to her eye. She reached behind her neck and undid the chain bearing her locket, then dropped it into his hand. "Until then."

Lincoln put his arm around her shoulder, and she rested her head against his chest, her palm splaying over his gently pounding heart. She'd never felt so warm, safe, and complete as she did now in his embrace. This, she thought, was where she belonged...this was where God had been leading her her entire life.

To marriage. With Lincoln Loud.

A happy smile crossed her lips, and snuggling closer to her beloved, she stared out to sea.


	10. A Bit of Bad News

**_November 24, 1916_**

All who knew him would say that Lincoln Loud was a fundamentally dour man. He smiled little, laughed rarely, and made his way through life in a tense, rigid posture like a man constantly expecting to be attacked. He was born in Whitechapel, one of London's roughest neighborhoods, and learned early on that while not everyone wanted to hurt him, there were too blamed many who did. Compounding that was his many years at sea, where even the briefest lapse in vigilance could lead to calamity.

To be short, he was not the kind of man to whistle happily to himself as he slipped into his quarters, feet barely aground, but that's exactly how he entered the room he shared with Captain Bartlett. Since Lynn agreed to marry him, he had been floating as a cloud through warm summer skies, the feeling in his breast unlike any he had ever known. If pressed, he would liken it to being stuffed with fresh, downy wool. It was new, queer, and though he wouldn't have thought so, he rather liked it.

It was just past twilight, and light wind redolent of earth blew from the rugged hills backing against Loulida. He and Lynn returned to the hospital just as the final rays of the setting sun drained into the ocean, their hands clasped and the world, for once, perfect; there was a war on and fewer than three days ago, their ship was shot out from under them, but none of that mattered, for they were young and in love. Before leaving her in her bed on the ward, they sat together and chatted easily by the soft glow of electric lamplight. Lincoln listened as she went on about herself and smiled at her quick and frequent laughter; she seemed a girl far younger, and Lincoln's infatuation only grew. When she prodded him about his upbringing, he politely demurred, which disappointed her. _I'd like to know more about you,_ she said, _and where you came from._ In her airy Irish accent, _you_ came out as _ye_.

 _There isn't much to tell,_ he said. She accepted that, but only grudgingly. Some things ought not be talked about, even with the one you love...especially with the one you love...and his life in Whitechapel was one of them. Specifically his mother and her morals. That woman, dead the last he heard, had been an endless source of embarrassment to him, and he strove always to forget her and the misdeeds she committed. Misdeeds that, by all rights, included him.

Kissing Lynn chastely on the forehead, wanting but denying himself the privilege of kissing her lips and her throat as well, Lincoln walked through the dimly lit hospital like a man through a pleasant dream. When he got to his room, he found Captain Bartlett sitting at the desk in his shirtsleeves, writing by the flickering amber light of an oil lamp, the feeble flame reflected in the lenses of his reading glasses. The old man turned over his shoulder as Lincoln entered, then back to his work. "Ah, Loud, there you are. I was looking for you."

"I was off, sir," Lincoln replied with a rush of guilt. "I apologize."

"Think nothing of it," Captain Bartlett replied, "I have news."

Lincoln went to his bed and sat, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. "Indeed, sir?" he asked.

The old man danced the tip of his pen across the page and hummed distractedly. "Yes. We're shipping to London in the morning for the inquiry."

Lincoln's heart staggered slightly like a man knocked off kilter. "Indeed?" he asked guardedly.

"Indeed," Bartlett replied, then elaborated. Tomorrow at 7am, he and Bartlett, alone, were to board a train to the other side of the island, where the _HMHS Forthright_ was even now anchored at the port of Chorístra. From there, they would sail back to jolly old England, with its incessant rain and chill, to testify before the Admiralty. Lincoln's shoulders slumped lower and lower and the burden of the old man's words increased. He expected as much, of course, but in his whirlwind romance with Lynn, he'd lost sight of it. Now, reality was intruding once more, and they would be forced to part, a proposition that sent Lincoln's stomach knotting into strange and painful shapes. He'd only just admitted and declared his feelings for her, he didn't wish to go yet. He imagined being divided from her...not being able to see her brown eyes or hear her voice...and the walls seemed to close in on him.

To a man in love, being separated from the source of his emotions is like being separated from air; even a little while is too long. He was bound by duty to attend the hearing, however, and though being away from Lynn would sting, they would be reunited afterward.

"Right, then," he said when the old man finished. His voice was even and unaffected, but inside, he had the queerest sense of impending doom, as though this were an end rather than a slight intermission. "I'll pack my things."

How would she react to the news? Would it disconcert her the way it had him? He imagined the look of disappointment in her eyes when she learned he was being called away, and his stomach knotted tighter, much like a noose 'round the neck of a condemned man. "What of the others?" he asked tentatively.

"I imagine they'll be reassigned," Bartlett said. "As far as I know, they're being sent to Lemnos to staff the hospitals until another ship can be sent."

Lemnos, _Britannic's_ destination before she was sent to the bottom, was not the front, but it was close enough that it received many wounded. Wires he'd read had it as constantly needing doctors and nurses to assistant with the overwhelming number of casualties.

"Very well," he said.

Getting to his feet, he fetched his seabag and packed it with what few possessions he had, moving with the grinding reluctance of a man set at an unenviable task.

Done, he sat the bag at the foot of the bed and frowned at it, as though it were the personification of his troubles, the reason manifest that his sudden happiness had turned to sudden disquiet. He'd kick the blasted thing if Captan Bartlett weren't present. He wanted to be with Lynn and that was final.

The petulant quality of his inner voice struck him, and he sighed. No use in being this way, he figured; sometimes, things simply happen whether you want them to or not, and you can either sulk or carry on. Lincoln Loud had never been one to sulk, and he would be damned if he was going to start now. He had his duties and Lynn had hers, and they likely would until the war was over. What did he realistically expect, that he and Lynn would run off, settle down on Kea, and become yeomen farmers?

He hadn't thought much of anything, honestly, except, of course, for her. His dreams, as dreams often are, were unfettered by the chains of reality, flights of fancy like isolated snapshots of marriage and, perhaps, children that failed to depict the effort and time that went before. That was his fault for allowing himself to be carried away like an imbecile.

Resigning himself to his fate, he returned to the bed, sat, and leaned over the nightstand. From the drawer, he took his written testimony and read it over while Captain Bartlett stood and stretched with a bear like yawn. The words failed to register, and he was forced to go over the same passages several times before they made a semblance of sense. "I'm off to the dining hall," Bartlett said and shrugged into his jacket, the light catching and shimmering on the brass buttons.

"I'll be along shortly, sir," Lincoln replied absently, knowing even as he spoke that he would not.

He wished to be alone.

After the old man was gone, Lincoln drew a deep breath and dropped the paper onto the bed. Any other time, he would have taken great pains to make sure it was as thorough and factual as possible, but right now he cared not. _Britannic_ hit a mine and sank. The crew acted bravely. What more must they know?

He'd have to tell Lynn.

A pang of grief went through his stomach like a ripple in the surface of a pond and he grimaced. He did not look forward to sharing the news with her.

Would she wait for him?

That thought struck him like a bullet and he furrowed his brow. Of course she would, why wouldn't she? Unless she met another man before they could marry...a better man.

Lincoln's heart crushed as if in a cruel fist. He was not one to be down about himself, but he had flaws like anyone, and unlike others, he was introspective enough to be acutely aware of them. Better men existed, and if Lynn found one…

Rubbish. He was giving into fancy again, and fancy got one nowhere except tangled in the coils of their own imagination. The cure for his ailment, he knew, was to talk to Lynn. She would certainly assuage his misery and reaffirm her intention to marry him, be it now or later, and they would go on from there. No, being away from her would not be easy, but he could bear it. When the war was over, or perhaps sooner, he would leave the sea, take her as his wife, and begin on a new path. To where, he was not sure. Land, and all it bore, had always held very little interest for him, and he had given little thought to what he would like to do if he retired. His entire life, his very being, had for so long been centered on becoming a captain that he'd never looked beyond.

Perhaps he was being rash. Many seamen enjoy long and contented marriages while remaining at their posts. He'd feel rather guilty leaving her alone for long periods, though, especially if they had children.

Yes. If there were children involved, he'd _have_ to retire. He never saw himself as a father, but if he became one, he intended to bloody well _be_ one.

He was getting ahead of himself again. He needed to talk to Lynn.

Only he was afraid that she'd take it badly...or worse yet, break off their engagement.

With that in mind, he dillied, reading his statement over again, making minor adjustments here and there, then paced the floors until Captain Bartlett returned. Wishing still to be by himself, he took his leave and went out into the night. The air, so recently warm, was now cold, and as he rambled aimlessly into town, he archly compared it to himself.

Light shone in the windows he passed, and a few late walkers moved through the narrow cobblestone streets, hurrying home or, perhaps, to dens of iniquity that only operated after dark. There were many such places in Whitechapel, whorehouses, opium dens, illicit saloons. It was the last in which he was raised and the first in which he was born. He would admit to the third, but never the first; the site of his nativity was a burning shame that he hid from everyone, even, to a degree, himself. It would only be right, he reckoned, that he tell Lynn at some point, as she wasn't just any egg off the street, she was the woman to whom he was giving his life, future, and, indeed, his heart. He was mortified by the idea that she might think less of him for it, however, and wanted to avoid telling her that as much as he wanted to avoid delivering the bad news.

He came to a shuffling stop in front of a shuddered butcher shop. Look at him, dawdling and procrastinating like a timid boy. He ought be ashamed of himself. This isn't how a man acts. A man doesn't worry over his problems, he solves them. He would tell Lynn of his leaving _and_ of his mother. If either one pushed her away, well...it would hurt, but so be it.

Turning around, he started back to the hospital.

* * *

Lynn O'Rourke sat up in bed and tried to focus on the Bible in her lap, but her mind kept drifting back to Lincoln, and every time they did, a wide, satisfied smile spread across her lips. At first, she attempted to quell such thoughts, but over time, she came to revel in them like a bather in warm water. She recalled the kiss he placed upon her forehead, and a shiver raced down her spine now as it did then. Remembering his proposal, and the way her heart slammed as he made it, she let out a cheerful sigh.

It was half past eight and the ward was empty save for her, the deep shadows held at bay by the circle of light spilling from the lamp on the bedside table. She'd been here since returning from her hike with Lincoln, breaking from her thoughts only to eat from the tray one of the nurses brought her. She expected Lincoln to come back at some point, even if only to wish her goodnight, and she awaited his arrival with sweet anticipation.

Presently, she turned a page even though she wasn't really reading; she started on Mark but somehow wound up all the way back in Leviticus. She made a pretense of scanning the words, retaining none of them, and called up a vision of the future. Married to Lincoln and living in a cottage somewhere in the north of England, where bare green hills roll across the land like waves and lonely, mist shrouded moors stand as they had since the dawn of time. She saw them sitting down to tea, both happy and smiling, and then, later, making love in their marriage bed. The former warmed her heart, while the latter made her its rhythm quicken. As always, thinking of _that_ brought a rush of shame to her cheeks, but she did not scold herself as she normally would. Indulging those thoughts might be sinful, but entertaining the stray one...centered about your betrothed...can't be _too_ wicked. God made us man and woman for a reason, to do just the kinds of things she saw herself and Lincoln doing, and He made us want to do them because if they were not attractive, we'd likely wave them off and never have children.

The urge to inspect that vision more closely needled her like a Devil whispering into her ear, enticing her to sin, but she refused. That would come in due time, for now, she would focus on the beautiful feeling in her chest. She flipped another page, then another, her slender fingers wrinkling the paper.

After she and Lincoln watched the sunset, they moseyed down the hill, Lynn at first on his back, then beside him, her hand in his, the quiet strength and warm affection in his touch making her feel safe and, perhaps for the first time in her life, truly loved. Before they parted, they talked a bit, Lincoln in the chair beside the bed and Lynn sitting where she was now; her ankle ached and it took great effort to keep from showing it. She told him a bit more about her family and her life in Ireland. When she asked him about himself, he seemed uncomfortable. She knew that he grew up in Whitechapel and had a hard go of it, but little more. She did not press him, as she imagined it was a difficult subject to speak on, but her curiosity was piqued. What exactly did he do during his youth? Was he in a street gang? Did he pick pockets? Did he hurt people?

He was a good, upstanding man now and far be it from Lynn to hold someone's past against them - Christ gave salvation to the worst allotment of people you could ever hope to meet - but dwelling on it, she came to the realization that she still didn't know him very well. She had seen his bravery and his compassion, and she told herself that those things, his character and principles, were all that mattered.

Something moved in her periphery, and she looked up; Lincoln came out of the shadows and flashed a tight smile that she returned tenfold. Snapping the Bible excitedly closed, she tossed it onto the nightstand and smoothed out the blanket covering her legs as if to make herself presentable. "I was wondering if you'd come back," she said as he sat.

"I was planning to all along," he said, then hesitated as though he had something important to say but couldn't find the words. "How's your ankle?"

Earlier, it was a throbbing mass, but now, hours later, the pain had subsided to a dull ache. "Well," she said with a resolute nod. "It pains me some, but I can handle a bit of that."

"Indeed," Lincoln said and flicked his eyes to the floor. His more-rigid-than-normal demeanor suggested tension, and the air between them seemed to grow leaden like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm.

Lynn frowned and sat up straighter. "Is everything alright?" she asked, a hint of worry in her voice.

He shifted uncomfortably then looked up at her. His face was stoic and set as always, but his stormy eyes raged with a dark disquiet that greatly unsettled Lynn, all the more because Lincoln was not an overly sensitive man. For something to bother him this way, it must be simply dreadful. "What's wrong?" she asked, nay, pleaded.

Sighing, Lincoln said, "Well, it's not awful, but I'm...I'm leaving in the morning."

The words hung heavy in the stagnant air. For a moment, Lynn didn't quite understand what he meant. Leaving? To where? Then it dawned on her.

He was being shipped away.

Her stomach lurched and a tight band of anxiety squeezed around her chest. She was so concerned with her attraction to him, and then with their budding courtship, that she somewhat forgot they were waiting on a ship to pick them up and, perhaps, take them in different directions. Wounded or not, she was an enlisted woman with obligations, and he was an enlisted man with his responsibilities. She lost track of that fact. "Oh," she was all she could think to say.

Nodding somberly, he told her about being called back to London for the inquiry into _Britannic's_ sinking and about her possibly being forwarded to Lemnos, and she listened with growing dread. She may not have properly known him two days ago, but his smile and gentle bearing had become precious to her - the prospect of being married to him was pure and beautiful and good. She was madly in love with him, and the thought of him going, leaving her her on this bleeding island, alone, brought tears to her eyes.

"It's just for a little while," he assured her. He sounded convinced, but his eyes betrayed him. He didn't want to go either. "Once everything's settled, we can meet back up again."

Those were hopeful words...but why did they strike her as so foreboding?

"Right," she allowed, and flashed a phony smile that felt too wide on her face. It really _was_ just a little while.

Even so, hot, stinging tears filled her eyes and she quickly looked away, one hand fluttering up to cover her face. Lincoln's facade crumbled a bit, and the look of worry in his face was more than she could handle; she broke down and cried, sobs wracking her body and making her breath catch. All she'd ever really wanted from life was to be married to a good man, now she had one and circumstance was tearing them apart.

"Lynn," he said softly, desperately. He sat where he was a moment, looking uncharacteristically at a loss, then got up and sat on the edge of the bed, his large hand laying on her shoulder. "Lynn...please...it's not that bad."

No, objectively it might not be, but to her it was terrible. Her emotions were wrought, perhaps, but that didn't change their nature nor did it lessen the pain in her heart. She opened her mouth to speak but issued a strangled sob instead. "I know," she moaned, "but I love you."

"I love you too," he said, "and...and I'm not happy about it either, but that's the way things have to be right now."

He was right, but she didn't like it. "I don't want them to be this way," she said and looked at him. Through the mist of her tears, his face was a miserable blur. She sniffed deeply and rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm. The needy, child-like inflection of her voice grated on her, but it was true. She _didn't_ want things to be like this. A week ago, the RAMC was all that mattered to her, but now, in the past forty-eight hours, she'd discovered something more, something beautiful, something perfect, and she wanted to have it, to cradle it, with razor sharp intensity.

"I know," he said, "I don't want it either. I want...I want you." He smiled softly and cupped her cheek in his hand, his thumb lightly brushing her tears away. Her heart sped up and their eyes met; in his limpid, light filled browns, Lynn saw not only love but her future as well. A strange feeling swelled in her chest, stronger than love, stronger than adoration, stronger than anything she had ever known, and from the way he gently stroked her face, gazing at her as though she were a priceless heirloom and _not_ a lazy-eyed Irish wench, Lincoln felt it too.

Staring into each other's souls, they tilted gradually forward, pulling together like celestial bodies, and their lips skimmed, hot breaths mingling. Lynn's heart stopped dead, and when he kissed her, her entire body jolted with electricity. His tongue tentatively flicked hers, and for a moment she was struck dumb, then she kissed him back, her fingers ranking through his hair.

Taking her face in his hands, Lincoln deepened the kiss, his head tilting and his tongue sensually massaging hers. Her movements were clumsy and awkward, but she quickly lost herself in the sweet taste of his breath and in the sensation of his thumbs caressing her cheekbones. She wasn't aware of him laying her back, or of pulling her with him, wasn't aware even of his hands urgently kneading her breast - she was too far gone in the physical act of loving and being loved, of her body uniting to her future husband's. Her pulse pounded, her heart crashed, and her loins stirred with desire. Her legs parted for him of their own accord, and his fullness pressed against her, sending sparks into her center. Lincoln was on top of her now, his fingers threading through her hair and her legs wrapped around his waist, their bodies a quivering tangle of flesh and limbs.

Pulling away, Lincoln stared down into her eyes, and never had any look affected her as greatly. In his eyes, she was the most beautiful creature on earth, and his love for her was as pure as still Irish waters. He leaned over and kissed her forehead, then her brow, relishing her as she relished him. When he reached her lips again, their noses brushed and their gazes locked. "I love you," she heard herself say, her voice weak and trembling.

"I love you too," he replied and stroked her hair.

Their lips fused, and the kiss was slower this time, more leisurely, his hand exploring her body and awakening powerful new sensations in her center. He undressed her slowly and lovingly, like a man unwrapping a present; unbuttoning the front of her dress and pulling it down her arms, kissing her jaw and the side of her throat as he did it; closing his calloused hand around one tender breast dancing with the palpitations of her heart; panting needily as he drew the fabric down her legs and trailing delicate kisses along her chest and stomach. She arched her back into his lips, her eyes fluttering closed and a moaning sigh issuing from her parted lips. He tossed the dress aside and looked down at her naked body with open wonder like a boy who'd never seen a woman before; a blush crept from the crown of her forehead to the tips of her toes, for she was a girl who'd never been seen by a boy before. He laid one shaky hand on her taut stomach and grazed it over her with languid fascianation; she panted for air and watched, the cool air alien against her skin.

Touching lead to petting, and petting to obstinate kissing. She groped and squeezed the bulge of his pants, its warm weight feeling right in her hand and the sharp catch of his breath making her giggle against his lips. Needing to feel him more, she fumbled at his zipper but couldn't get it. He pulled away from her lips and politely waited as she tried again and again to free him to no avail. "I'm trying my best," she said with a flush of embarrassment, then giggled because it was humorous.

"They're quite tricky," he said. He reached down, undid the button, and did the zipper for her. His penis popped out and into her hand, a hot, pulsing shaft of the hardest iron sheened in the softest silk. She closed her fingers around it and stroked up then down, analyzing it with girlish curiosity and deciding she liked it.

Lincoln touched her face and fought to catch his breathing. "Is that alright?" she asked huskily.

"It's very nice," he grinned, and for some reason, that statement made them both laugh. He leaned into her lips and kissed her, and once again she lost herself to him, vaguely aware of him mounting her, of his crowned head prodding her lips. Her ardor rose higher and higher until her body cried out for him. She threw her head back and lifted her hips just as he sank himself into her bubbling core; stinging pain marked her defloration, and the sensation of her body being spread and filled made her gasp in surprise. Lincoln hung his head and grabbed the sheets in both hands, his member throbbing against her walls and her muscles clamping down around him. He withdrew slowly, and Lynn bristled at the feeling. He surged forward again, and this time it felt different, better. She propped her legs in an M and shoved her fingers into his hair, their narrowed eyes meeting once more.

He set a slow, steady pace, each forward thrust evoking even greater pleasure than the last. He cupped her face in his hands and stared into her eyes, and she stared back, giving herself irrevocably to him - mind, body, and spirit.

Gradually, he went faster, harder, and Lynn kissed him to stifle the screams rising in her throat. Without warning, he froze, and his rod expanded painfully inside of her, pushing her walls even farther apart. She moaned, then sucked a shocked mouthful of his breath when thick, liquid fire flooded her like ambrosia, knocking her into her own end and making her shake. Lincoln grunted, then thrusted again, more spurting deep into her stomach and settling like lava. Bliss bubbled up in Lynn's brain, and she threw her hips against his with a long, unsteady _Uuuhhh,_ her body greedily sucking every last drop of his essence into her womb.

After, Lincoln shifted off and took her in his strong arms, his front flush with her back. Sastiated weariness fell over Lynn like a warm, woolen blanket, and she snuggled closer to him, a big, closed-lipped smile playing across his face. She'd known feelings of safety and peace, but never as total as this - she could stay in this bed in his embrace, forever and _never_ want to leave.

Lincoln kissed the back of her neck and she hummed sleepily. "I wasn't planning on that when I came in," he said bemusedly.

"Nor was I," Lynn admitted. "But I'm glad it happened."

"So am I," Lincoln said. He laced his fingers across her stomach, and the tip of her penis brushed across the flesh of her buttocks, leaving a wet trail over her skin. "Even though it might not to be proper."

Lynn snickered, though he was right, it wasn't proper. Sex was to enjoyed only between a man and his wife in the sanctified union of holy matrimony. She felt a rush of guilt, but consoled herself with the fact that while they weren't married, they would be the first chance they got.

Neither spoke for a while, both basking in the warm afterglow of their lovemaking. The puddles of wet heat he spent in her stomach grew cold, and even though she closed her thighs to hold onto it for as long as she could, it began to seep out. Was that the normal course of things? She knew very little about sex and always imagined that the man's seed stayed in you. Maybe that meant she was barren.

That was a concern for another day, for right now, nothing could dispel the happiness in her heart.

Finally, Lincoln shifted. "There was something else I wanted to tell you." His tone was grave, and Lynn's heartbeat sped up in awful expectation. Perhaps she was too presumptuous in her previous statement.

She turned in his arms and rested her hand on his bare shoulder. Her eyes went instantly to his muscular chest and she longed to touch it, then to kiss it; instead, she looked into his eyes. "What?" she asked.

Drawing a sigh, he glanced down in something approaching shame. "You wanted to know more about me."

In the whirlwind torpidity of their encounter, she completely forgot about that. She laid her hand on his cheek and tried to communicate all the love and understanding she felt. "I know it must have been bad on you," she said, "to grow up in a place so rough. If you don't want to speak of it, I won't force you."

Lincoln met her eyes. "It's not that," he said, "at least much. It's my mother and father." His cheeks turned light scarlet with embarrassment, and while it was the saddest thing Lynn had ever seen, it somehow managed to also be the cutest. "My mother," he said and swallowed thickly. Whatever he had to say, it was both important and exceedingly hurtful. Lynn steeled herself for tearful tales of abuse and prepared to console him as best she could. _Maybe your mother didn't love you,_ she would say, _but I do and I'll be the best wife there ever was. You deserve it._ "My mother," he said with a deep breath, "was a prostitute and my father was one of her...customers. I don't know who he is and neither did she." He lowered his gaze once more. "I don't know what stock i come from, but I do know that I'm the bastard son of a whore."

Lynn winced at the self-deprecation in his voice. She tenderly stroked his face and lifted his face to hers. "What does that matter?" she asked earnestly.

"It matters greatly," he argued.

"No it doesn't," Lynn countered and smiled, "it makes no difference to me. You're a fine man, Lincoln Loud, and you might be the bastard son of a whore to everyone else, but to me, you're a prince."

The corners of his mouth twitched up into an uncontrollable smile and the light she'd come to love so much returned to his eyes. "I wouldn't go _that_ far," he said demurely.

"I would," she said. "I love you regardless of that." She leaned into his lips and kissed him, her tongue swirling around his and her hand flattening on his chest. He returned the kiss, and shortly the tides of passion swept them away once more, Lynn climbing onto him and his hands gripping her hips. She pressed her hands to his shoulders and slowly settled, sheathing him to her limit with a quavering _nngh_ reminiscent of a woman wading into icy water. She bent at the waist, her face hovering inches above his, and rocked slowly against him. He brushed his fingers through her hair and tasted her lips, his hands stroking up and down her flanks as she increased her speed. She weaved her fingers through his and held his hands against the mattress, rocking faster now, harder, the pleasure and pain of him intoxicating her senses and urging her on. When her end came, she squeezed his hands fiercely and rode out her orgasm with a breathy moan. Lincoln's penis swelled in that now familiar way and his seed flowed into her again, overfilling her womb and dribbling down his pumping shaft. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and cried out into his flesh; he unwove his fingers from hers and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight as their climax ebbed and flowed.

"That was even better than the first time," he said into her ear, and she giggled.

"I'd have to agree," she said. She shifted off of him, and he took her in his arms again. "Have you ever done this before?"

"Yes," he replied, "once. About ten minutes ago."

That made her laugh. She remembered that tomorrow he was leaving her, and her mood darkened. "I don't want you to go," she said sullenly.

"I don't want to either," he said, "but I'll be back." He caressed her cheek. "You can count on that."

Lynn smiled. "I will."

She didn't speak for a long time. "It might not be proper...and it might cause us trouble...but can you stay the night with me?"

"I was already going to," Lincoln smiled. He kissed her forehead, and Lynn cuddled up to him, safe and warm and happy in his arms.

In moments, she was asleep.


	11. We Have Forever

**STR2D3PO: Technically two sex scenes…**

 **Anonymous789: I do that a lot. You get the best of both worlds that way**

* * *

 _ **November 25, 1916**_

Lincoln rose the next morning at 5am, Lynn nestled in his arms and her hair in his face. For a second he was befuddled, then the night before came back to him, and he smiled. Resting his head against hers, he tightened his grip around her stomach and held tightly, as if by doing so he could keep from being parted. She stirred and muttered in her sleep, but did not wake, and Lincoln kissed the ear peeking from her auburn tresses. He never knew someone could be as soft and warm as Lynn was, and had no idea that he was missing something, something vital, until she was in his arms. With her there, he felt whole and complete, as though before he weren't a person at all but a half a person. A hand without a glove, as it were, cold and alone. He buried his face in her hair and took a deep breath, her clean scent filling his nose and soothing his already frazzled nerves.

Last night, he lay awake long after Lynn slept, staring into the darkness and grappling with the roiling emotions in his stomach. He was decidedly happy, happier than he had ever been in his life - Lynn loved him and one day she would marry him - but the prospect of leaving sat upon his breast like a snapping, gnashing night demon, pinning him, suffocating him, draining his life and energy away through cursed fangs. He was being childish again, but chastising himself did not change the way he felt. Human beings may be capable of higher reasoning, but they are also animals and thus subject to dumb biological urges - the urge to procreate, the urge to avoid fire, and the urge to not get out of bed and sail thousands of miles from the one they love. A true Englishman, Lincoln had come to believe, felt those selfsame urges, but suppressed them. Weak men..say Italians or Americans...give into said urges and allow themselves to be governed by them.

He was not Italian, nor was he American. He would suffer this with quiet dignity the way he had suffered objectively worse things in the past.

He glanced at the clock on the wall, its face sheened in silvery moonlight, and squinted to see through the shadows. It was a quarter past five. He would suffer greatly, but later. Turning back to Lynn, he kissed her bare shoulder, allowing his lips to linger on her flesh, then held his hand to her pert breast, the soothing beat of her heart bringing a lazy smile. That was his and his alone, just as his heart belonged inextricably to her. Though he wasn't one to engage in sentimentality, that was a beautiful thought.

Closing his eyes, he affectionately kissed her shoulder again, then moved up the gentle slope of her neck, finally stopping at her cheek when she spoke. "That tickles." She slurred with sleep, but sounded happy nevertheless.

"Sorry," he said and kissed her again, "I didn't mean to wake you." He drew away.

"I didn't say stop," she said playfully.

Well, in that case. He kissed her cheek again, and when she turned her head, he claimed her lips with a squelch. She caressed the tip of his tongue with hers and smiled at him. "Good morning," she said.

"Morning," he replied.

"What time is it?"

He looked up at the clock. "Twenty after five."

Apprehension flickered in her eyes. "What time do you leave again?"

"Seven," he said. "I'd better get back to Captain Bartlett soon. He's probably wondering where I am."

Lynn pressed her lips together in displeasure but nodded anyway, bearing it with admirable strength for a woman. "Alright," she said. "Will I see you before you go?"

"Of course you will," he replied and kissed the tip of her nose, making her squint. "I wouldn't leave without saying goodbye."

He wouldn't leave at all if he had a say in the matter, but he did not. He was obligated to The White Star Line, to Captain Bartlett, and, until the end of the inquiry, to _Britannic,_ even though she currently rested beneath the waves. He was the sixth officer when she went down and though his responsibility to it ceased the moment the stern slipped below, he intended to see his duties through to the end.

Before getting up, he held Lynn in his arms - staring into her eyes, stroking her cheek, and kissing her when the spirit took him. He was rather like a squirrel, only instead of storing nuts for the winter, he was storing her love for God alone knew how long. At six, he slipped out from under the covers and hurriedly dressed; Lynn sat up in bed, her splayed hand pressing the sheet coquettishly to the her chest, and watched him with a sly grin that was both appealing and alarming. He blushed as he pulled up his pants, stopping to tuck his penis in. "You're staring," he pointed out.

"Me?" she asked innocently. "No."

"Yes you are."

"No I'm not. I'm admiring. There's a difference, Mr. Loud."

Lincoln laughed. "Indeed."

He buttoned his shirt, sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled his socks and shoes on. Lynn got to her knees, the blanket falling down to expose her chest, and draped her arms over his shoulders; her breasts flattened against her back as she hugged him fiercely. "I don't like this," she confessed, "but I'll take it." She pressed her cheek to his, and it was slick with tears.

"So will I," he said, "but keep in mind that after this, we have forever."

As he walked back to his quarters like a criminal to the gallows, those last three words rang endlessly through his head. We have forever. Tomorrow is promised to no man, but as long as he had tomorrows to spare, they would be Lynn's. Not much is certain in this life, but, to him, that was.

At the door, he turned the knob, took a deep, fortifying breath, and went in.

Captain Bartlett stood at the foot of his bed in full regalia - overcoat and boots, but no hat, as his was lost - and placed a stack of neatly folded clothes into a bag. Outside, rain fell from the funeral sky, and the faint strands of ashen dawn touched the window pane like a vampyre seeking ingress. The old man glanced up as Lincoln entered, then matter-of-factly away, as though Lincoln's being missing was a normal and acceptable event. "Ah, there you are, Loud. I missed you last night."

Feeling a bite of shame, Lincoln coughed and rubbed the back of his neck. "I was off, sir," he said simply.

Bartlett snapped the bag closed and looked up. There was no judgement or castigation in his ruddy face. "With the O'Rourke woman?"

Lincoln hesitated, not wanting to admit his impropriety. He wanted to lie to his commander even less. "Yes, sir."

Bartlett pushed away from the bed and came over, stopping inches away from Lincoln. Lincoln readied himself for an outraged slap or even a punch, and jumped a little when the old man gave his arm a congratulatory clap. "She's a comely woman, that," he said, then lifted his brows. "Are you in love with her?"

The forthrightness of the question caught Lincoln off guard. "I am," he said upon recovering. "Very much, sir."

"Marriage?" Bartlett asked.

"When we're able, sir."

The old man beamed and clapped Lincoln's shoulder again, hard enough to nearly knock him off his feet. "Good. There's nothing quite as beneficial to a man as a good wife. Treat her well, Loud, and she'll treat you well."

"Aye, sir," Lincoln said. He intended to do just that. Lynn would always come before himself and he would see to it that she was safe, protected, and never wanted.

As he gathered his own things, Lincoln spun grand fantasies of their married life, the two of them living in a cottage somewhere far from the city, moderately well off and happy with each other. He could not have visualized himself a father two days ago, but he saw their children as clear as he could see the mist shrouded roofs of Loulida, a girl just as lovely as her mother and a strapping lad with that blamed cowlick that he always feared ran in his family. He smiled to himself and let out a dreamy sigh like a smitten girl. His spirits soured when he remembered that he would have to wait an indefinite period of time before meeting them, or, indeed, even making them. He would likely be offered reassignment to another ship, but he would retire instead. Lynn would leave the RAMC once she could, and together, they would set sail on a new journey, a journey of love and togetherness that would last a lifetime and, if Lincoln was wrong about God, even longer.

It was ten to seven when he and Captain Bartlett left their room, each carrying a bag. A few of the crewmen and some of the hospital staff were gathered in the lobby to see them off, and with them, Lynn, radiant in a simple white dress accented by a blue apron. She looked a washerwomen in the employ of a lofty lord, and when she saw him, her face lit up. Her smile was one of both joy and wistful longing, happy tinged with a touch of gray, and it hurt him to see even an ounce of dubiety in it. Setting his bag down in front of her, he stood tall before her, attempting to keep his composure, then she stepped into his arms, and he threw caution to the wind by kissing her deeply, not caring who saw or what they thought.

He drew back from her lips and tilted her chin up so he could peer one final time into her murky eyes. Tears stood in the corners, and a ripple of pain cut through his stomach. "I love you," he said with earnest intensity.

"I love you too, Lincoln Loud," she whispered. Her lips trembled and her tears spilled down her cheeks in silent rivulets like rain. "Come back to me."

"I will," he promised.

He grazed his thumb over her cheek, drying her tears, then with great and cumbersome reluctance, he picked up his bag, turned around, and followed Captain Bartlett to a coach waiting at the bottom of the steps.

Lynn watched him go, holding herself together only because she knew he needed her to be strong. He climbed into the coach behind Captain Bartlett and pulled the door closed. He looked at her through the window, and putting on the biggest, bravest smile she could muster, she lifted her hand in a sad, half-hearted wave.

He offered a wan smile in return and raised his own hand. The sadness in his eyes cut her like the edge of a knife blade, and she clamped her teeth down on her bottom lip to keep from crying. She didn't want him to see her that way...didn't want his last memory of her until they met again to be of her miserable and desolate.

The driver snapped the reigns, and the horses took off, pulling the coach behind it. Lynn went to the door and onto the front step, rain droplets pelting her face and wetting her hair. She watched the coach roll down the street, then turn and disappear behind a building. Deep, gut wrenching loss clutched her and she pressed her hand to her mouth, her tears mixing with the rain until she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

* * *

On the train, Lincoln reached into his pocket, closed his hand around the necklace Lynn gave him the day before, and slipped it over his neck. He held the heart pendant and stared out the water sluiced window; the port lay spread out at the bottom of a rugged hillside, the massive _HMHS Forthright_ sitting astride a long pier jutting out over the water. He brushed the heart with his thumb and drew a heavy sigh.

By the time the train pulled into the station, the rain had picked up and hissed on the roof covering the platform like the mocking whisper of demons delighting in the suffering around them. The platform itself stood empty, a lonely, wind driven newspaper dancing across the planks; if he didn't know any better, he'd say he was back in England already.

Greece or Britain, the weather matched his mood perfectly, and as he shuffled off the train, he threw a yearning look at the steep, craggy hills dividing him from Lynn. The desire to throw down his bag and go back swept through him, and not giving into it was the second hardest thing he'd ever done..behind only leaving Lynn in the first place. Turning sadly away, he followed Captain Bartlett into the station, where several uniformed navy men waited. A half an hour later, Lincoln stood on the foredeck of _HMHS Forthright_ in the falling rain. The ship pulled away from its berth and drifted out to sea, the shore falling gradually but inexorably into the mist. Lincoln stared at the Isle of Kea with an ache in his stomach that threatened to send him to his knees, and when Captain Bartlett slapped him on the back, he jerked.

"Buck up, Loud," he said kindly, "it's not forever."

The mountain was gone now, hidden behind thick white, and Lincoln flicked his eyes to the gray, tossing sea. "Right," he said and blinked back tears.

It was just for a little while, he told himself.

Not forever.

 _ **January 25, 1965**_

The old man sat back in his stool, spent, and stared down at the floor, his hand loosely clutching a pint on the bar, his fifth or sixth since he started his tale. The saloonkeeper leaned over the counter, his elbow propped on the surface and his chin resting in his hand, and several other people, young working class men in tweeds and worn trousers, sat 'round like children at story time, their expressions dour as they processed what they'd just heard.

"You never saw her again," Winslow stated. He was bent forward on his own stool, literally pulled in by Lincoln's account. His beer sat untouched and sweating.

Lincoln nodded solemnly. "I never did," he said. "I testified then gave the company my notice. I looked for her, waited for her, even wrote to the RAMC, but I didn't find her." He chuckled. "Funny thing, that. How can two people who want to be together so badly not find a way?" He picked up his glass and drained it, then sat it on the bar with a clink. "I knew where she lived in Ireland and I went there. I left my address with a neighbor. Her father was dead by then. I waited and hoped, then I rejoined White Star; I thought maybe she could find me there. She didn't. I don't even know if she looked. Maybe she found a better man. Maybe she was killed. I just don't know." He held his glass out, and the saloon keeper fell all over himself to refill it free of charge. "I assumed she didn't want to find me. Maybe she thought better of it. I can't say. I eventually got over it and married. My wife died a year ago. Lovely woman and I loved her dearly, as much as I did Lynn. She was barren, you know, so we never had children." He took the glass from the barkeep and nodded his thanks.

"Bloody hell," one of the men said in something like sympathy.

"Indeed" Lincoln said. "But in life you either carry on or you lie down and die. I'm not ready to die yet. I've still never met the Queen." His bitter smile made clear that he didn't give one bloody hell about the Queen.

Winslow regarded the old man for a second, then asked, "The necklace...do you still have it?"

"Aye," Lincoln said. He reached into his sweater and pulled it out, a tiny heart, the silver tarnished from decades of wear. "I never take it off."

"It must mean a lot to you," Winslow said.

Setting his empty glass aside, Lincoln tucked the heart back in and nodded. "It does. One of the most precious things I own. Next to my wedding band." He held up one wrinkled hand and splayed his fingers to show Winslow the ring.

The younger man considered it thoughtfully. "I think most of us have something like that," he mused and reached into his coat pocket. "My mother gave me this. She died ten years ago. Cancer. She was an incredible woman and we were very close." He took something out and laid it on the bar. "It belonged to my father. The only thing she had of him."

Lincoln leaned over to give the trinket a cursory examination, then stiffened in surprise when he saw what it was.

An aged silver flip top lighter, the letters L.T.L. engraved across the front.

"It was her most prized possession," Winslow said, "and now it's mine."

Lincoln looked up, bewilderment in his eyes. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish. The other men glanced between Winslow and the lighter, their expressions nearly as shocked as Lincoln's.

"It's a long story," Winslow said, "almost as long as yours. I'll tell it to you...but you have to buy me drinks and dinner." An uncharacteristically mischievous twinkle entered Winslow's eye, lending him the appearance of a boy.

Lincoln's lips quivered and watery tears stood in his eyes. He tried to speak but broke down instead, one wrinkled hand covering his face and his shoulders hitching rapidly. Winslow scooted closer and laid his hand on the old man's shoulder.

"It's alright, Dad," he said, grinning despite the tears tracking down his own face. "I was just playing. I'll buy..."

* * *

 **NinjaPixel225: Because you saw through my evil ruse. I hate when that happens...**


End file.
